Rooftop Diving
by Zaedah
Summary: Reality needed a new director or she was walking off the set.
1. Chapter 1

_Yes, Zaedah still believes a Doyle-less universe is too cruel to be allowed. No, this is not denial. This is sanity saving fiction! With that, I present chapter one for your enjoyment..._

**Rooftop Diving  
**

The magazine failed to hold her attention. Not the hair sculpting tips. Not the latest lip shades. Not even the sex tips, although that blushingly in-depth article came closest to derailing her train of strangely focused thoughts. No, something kept shoving aside the pleasantly pointless inner ramblings that normally passed as her regular brain function. Unbidden, unexpected, mildly unwelcome. Typically, Cordelia Chase could slap a fresh coat of distraction paint to cover such single-minded moments. She wasn't known for deep and reflective contemplations, unless the subject was evening wear. Like a demonic jack-in-the-box, one person sprung up in annoying fashion, the lid refusing to stay down.

He'd been quiet tonight. Angel noticed too and chose to ignore it. Apparently, the 'How To Be A Vampire' manual saved a chapter for the skill of circumvention. Doyle wasn't known for dark moods, though Cordelia occasionally suspected he was a far better actor than she. Not that such a sacrilegious thought deserved audible words. The cheerful greetings and optimistic quips seemed second nature to the little Irish man, but random chips in the façade had appeared lately. Somber was better worn by the tall dark and broody. Sober was something Doyle wore next to never. The slip in customary form, dressed in compliments and completely unveiled flirting, made it all the more conspicuous. Not that she noticed him. Cordelia Chase reserved notice for designer shoes, private jets and thick wallets. And she'd cling to her personal truth, the one written in queen-worthy calligraphy, like one clutches half-priced Gucci.

Carnage and destruction achieved, daylight now approached to signal the end of their professional work day. As Angel perfected his aimless loitering in shadowed corners, Doyle had taken a glass and a hidden bottle of scotch and headed to the roof. He'd thought no one was looking, of course, but she had been watching him covertly most of the evening. Not that she'd call it watching. Doyle just happened to occasionally meander into her line of sight, and failing that, she peeked.

Cordy knew what to expect. An unapologetic alcoholic, the Irishman would need a truckload of aspirin tomorrow. Most people had a reason for their addiction and it suddenly bothered her that she didn't know her coworker well enough to have mined the cause of his. Actually, she knew very little about him, which should have been a source of pride. Below her notice as he was, Cordelia liked to think she was favoring him by directing her speech to him sometimes. It was all part of the grand scheme not to care. Purposeful aloofness was a Sunnyvale specialty and one that served her well. Simple things like Doyle's favorite color or how long he'd been in this country escaped her knowledge. And it didn't seem fair, considering how much he knew, and instinctively understood, about her. All Cordy knew of his past was a relationship in the form of a gorgeous ex-wife and his messenger gig for the PTB; splitting migraines the majority of the job description. No wonder he drank so much. Speaking of…

The vision seemed to take Freddie Kruger nails to Doyle's mind today. Well, more than usual. The intensity of the tremor and visible agony was ratcheted to a decibel level only dogs could perceive. Yet he'd simply given them a location and they were off, a trio of avengers needing only spandex and codenames. Normally he just needed a bit of time, a double malt scotch and buckets of painkillers to recover and tonight seemed no different to the untrained eye. Scrunching her nose in distaste, Cordy realized she'd been studying him longer than she'd realized. Damn, she hated when she surprised herself. But there was something nagging in the back of Cordy's skull that kept her mind filtering through tonight's seemingly unimportant moments. Most nights, the staggering sensory impact was almost nil. So what if demons slobbered on corpses in dark alleys? As long as they didn't drool on her ensemble, it was filed under 'normal day.'

Still, something made her eyes follow him behind the handy camouflage of her magazine. And Cordy wasn't the only one. Once they'd returned to the office, Angel had tried to subtly question Doyle. For a talker, the man could clam up at the drop of a Vera Wang beret. The boss wondered aloud why the PTB gave him such a lengthy vision for so little information. Doyle had shrugged it off, dodging the issue with no attempt at charm or placating. Neither she nor Angel bought the 'no big deal' act but both let it go. There was no sense pushing him. He'd only drink more later.

It was the direction of these jumbled thoughts that prompted her to unfold her now-numb legs from beneath her tingling backside to rise from her seat. When body parts are asleep, it's tough to be graceful but the lack of an audience helped. Angel had wished her a good night moments before, the elevator's creaking confirming her freedom to plot unseen. Cordelia looked to the stairs, debating the wisdom of her next step. Catching sight of Doyle's brown leather jacket slung over the computer chair, she rationalized that it was chilly tonight and someone should bring his coat to him. Opening the rooftop door with all the hush a set of rusty hinges allows, Cordelia sought the object of her appallingly uncontrolled thoughts. Leaning against the wall, Doyle's eyes were cast to the heavens. A glass of scotch sat on the ledge, and he fingered it absently. The bottle was obscured from view and she could only guess how much he'd already consumed. The man could down liquor faster than she could spend money. When she'd had it.

Unfortunately, her eyes sent visual confirmation to her brain and the thought that registered first was nearly appalling. This grungy slacker guy was kind of cute. When did that happen? Was it a trick of the lighting…or lack thereof? A solitary silhouette against the canvas of night, city lights casting a favorable glow on muted features. Yeah, that explained it. He was no Angel, but in that moment, no less attractive. And now she'd have to gouge her delusional eyes out.

Attempting to gauge him from a distance failed. So she set aside hormonal musings and set about clinically taking in what she could. Really, this was not a complicated guy. He was tired, that much she knew already. His shoulders were bowed and the outer wall was employed in holding him up. Not enough time had passed for him to need the steadying support; even Doyle couldn't drink that fast. He didn't seem at all bothered by the October chill, wearing only a dark blue button down shirt that covered a black t-shirt, one undoubtedly bearing some obscure band's logo. Maybe he was used to the cold. Did they have winter in Ireland? She'd have to ask. The wind blew goosebumps onto her arms and she looked at the jacket in her hand with a grin. Donning it with supermodel flourish, Cordy took a moment to breath in the leather, which carried a scent just shy of clean. Slobbering demons tend to leave a trace, just ask her knock-off pradas. Cordelia squared her shoulders and strutted to the wall.

"And I'm sure we've had enough," Cordelia announced as she stole the full glass from his hand. Carelessly dumping the contents over the ledge, she turned back to him with a victorious smile. And just the slightest worry that someone below was now haplessly wet.

"First one," Doyle informed her, only mildly annoyed at the intrusion.

"Uh-huh," she teased, not at all convinced. Closing the distance with a habitual sauntering sway, she stopped mere inches away. And suddenly it seemed too far. Damn, was this some spontaneously birthed crush and when did she order it 'to go?' The glass was released to a spot on the ledge just north of even.

"Don't trust me?" His husky tone, new to her ears, was just a bit intoxicating. She wondered if he knew that.

Of course, there was an easy way to detect his alcohol consumption. And it didn't shock her in the least that she thought of it. Nor that she intended to pursue it. He certainly wouldn't protest. Had it been daytime, the decision would have been burnt away in the sunlight. In the pioneering spirit of all good exploration, Cordy ran a daring hand through his short hair, noting with the refreshing lack of boy-hair products. Her palm came to rest at the back of his head. Pulling him closer, she let her mouth float over his before dragging her tongue across his bottom lip. Tasting no alcohol there, she deemed further evidence necessary. But when the suddenly possessed Cordelia moved in for more, Doyle held back.

"We can't." His words were spoken with soft regret. But Cordy, unused to rejection, scanned his eyes to find a 'no,' coming up empty.

"Sure about that?" She returned with a Marilyn-esque breathlessness she hoped would change his mind. Why, she couldn't say.

When Doyle opened his mouth to counter her remark, Cordy cut him off by thrusting her tongue inside, sweeping within. Whatever hesitation he'd had initially was eclipsed by instinct. His tongue found hers as his hands tugged her hips nearer. Cordy's arms slid around his neck and any shyness was gone as she took what she wanted. Thanks Faith, lesson learned. And he submitted to her plan, stroking her tongue's length with such dedication that she forgot to be embarrassed she hadn't flossed this morning. As he explored her mouth thoroughly, she was forced to cling to him for upright support. Near orgasmic moment achieved with just this contact. How likely was that? Moaning against him, her hips moving involuntarily in a light grind that would have shamed her mother. But she wanted him. Dear God, did she want him. Funny how she didn't want him yesterday. Or even this morning.

Then, just as suddenly as she began it, Doyle broke away, catching his breath while she fought to put her brain back in gear. In the space of one kiss, Cordelia Chase knew she was in lo… well, trouble at any rate. And probably had been for some time. Why was she always the last to freakin' know?

Catching his breath first, Doyle smirked just a bit. "Good t'ing the cops don' check sobriety that way." But the tease evaporated into a pool of liquid seriousness. "What're ye doin'?"

Cordelia pulled back to look at him. "Trying to figure out if Kate was right." At his questioning gaze, she added, "About how you feel about me."

The fleeting blush was a blaring clue. "And kissin' me gives you insight, then."

Hmmm…gave her more than that. "I could have asked." She conceded.

"Aye, you coulda."

"But you wouldn't have answered. Not with the truth, anyway." At the challenge, he dropped his gaze, a silent admittance that the observation was right.

Cordy permitted him a moment to arrange his thoughts around the idea of truth, then tightened her arms around his neck, effectively trapping him in the embrace. His hands hadn't released their firm hold on her hips, which was considered rather promising. As his eyes returned to hers, she took advantage of this closeness to examine the contours of the muted emerald shade. It was as though this particular version of green was an undiscovered color she was seeing for the first time.

"What're ye doin' Cordy?" He repeated.

"Are you complaining?"

"And Angel says I'm evasive," he muttered. Reaching up, he pulled her arms down and pinned them to her side. She tried to move within the new confines but he was stronger than he looked. After a moment he released her, reached for the bottle and started for the stairs. 20 seconds later, she remembered to be entirely offended. Storming after him, Cordelia caught up just as he opened the door. Reaching past him, she used her momentum to slam the door closed before he could slip through it. Having an arm nearly amputated by steel door, Doyle appeared less than friendly when he spun to face her. Cordy refused to be intimidated by the rare display of anger and insisted that her eyes not find it attractive.

"Cord-"

"Don't walk away from me. We're not done yet."

He looked to the stars for mercy. "Done _what_?"

"Making things…" Of all times for her logic to fail, "different between us?" Yes, it was a question, like a child hoping a frail excuse passed the quasi-parental test.

Incredulous barely described his expression. "That you did."

Cordelia tried to get this back on track. "Look, I came up here to talk."

"That you didn'," he reminded her and she couldn't hold back the flushed cheeks that undid the work of her morning makeup routine.

"No. Can we?" The kindergarten voice that squeaked out of her throat made her cringe.

"And if I say no?" But she knew by his tone he wouldn't make good on that. In the end, he was such a push over.

"I'll hold your jacket hostage." She snuggled further into the leather to accentuate her point. Then coughed a bit at the resurgence of demon-odor.

Doyle allowed a frustrated nod, taking a long drink straight from the bottle as he walked back to the wall. To fortify himself, she imagined. Rejoining him there, Cordy reformulated her plan of attack. It had been so clear when she was kissing him. She was learning things quickly, like how he didn't like to be cornered. How he disliked direct questions. How beyond average he kissed. Which of the many queries should she launch first?

"Tonight's vision was totally intense. Why did you lie about it?"

His jaw clenched and he kept his gaze from her, opting for another drink. She'd watched others drink strong liquor and enjoyed the painful wince that typically followed. But Doyle swallowed it as though it was water. Just when she thought no answer was coming, he hung his head.

"Why does it matter?"

"Tell you what?" A patient mothering voice surfaced. "How 'bout you answer me first. Then you get a turn. Then me. All honest, all fair. Right?" Her enthusiastic explanation of the 'game' earned her the slightest grin.

"Ye want 20 questions at 3 in the mornin'?"

"You game?" She gave his shoulder a nudge to seal the deal. "So…the vision?"

Doyle's reluctance was telling. He was deciding how little he needed to say to be convincing. Stealing Angel's ploy to use against her. "It wasn't much worse than any other."

"Have you wanted to kiss me before?"

Doyle turned sharply to her. "Oh no, supermodel. My turn." The devious grin did wicked things to her concentration. "Am I gettin' my jacket back?"

"But it looks so much better on me." Batting her lashes coyly, she watched him give her an appreciative once over. Her skin heated at the attention and she threatened her inner schoolgirl with detention.

"Can' deny that." There was that deliciously low tone again. Making it quite impossible to talk. Damn it, that was his goal, wasn't it? Distraction.

Two can play at that game, she decided. "My turn. Did you want to kiss me?"

"Sorry. Can' ask the same question twice." He took another drink and her hands itched to smash that bottle.

Cordelia drew on her favorite expression; the devastated pout. "Says who? Besides, I reworded it…"

"What? Only you get to set the rules?"

Oh, he was good. But this was far more familiar territory. Bickering with a side of tease. Settling back against the wall, Cordelia plotted a new strategy. "Fine. Lightening round. Why do you drink so much?" The tactlessness of her words visibly struck him and she momentarily regretted uttering them.

"Maybe I need to. Why does it bother you so much?"

Because it means you've been hurting way too long, her Oprah-laced mind supplied. "Addiction destroys people. Is self-destruction your goal?"

His eyes took on a pained sheen. "I trust the visions'll do that for me. Why'd ye really come up here?"

"Because you were too quiet. And it worried me. Do you always notice women's shoes or am I a special case?"

That earned her a half smile, dimple making an appearance. "Special case. D'ya always carry barrels of aspirin or is that just for me?"

The dreaded blush returned. He really did notice everything. "For you." And speaking of vision pain… "What else did you see?"

He looked away, the stars enjoying his focus. "What makes ye t'ink there was more to it?"

"Besides your obvious unwillingness to discuss it? It was harsh this time. Too harsh. Angel thought so too. And you didn't answer me. Losing points now."

"I…" he began, then bit his lip. "I saw t'ings not related to Angel's work. Happens sometimes."

God, blood from stone anyone? "What things?"

He returned his gaze to her just long enough to put a finger to her lips. "Wasn't your turn. You forfeit. Game over."

The punctuation to that sentence was his leaving. Not quite ready to end this already surreal conversation, her hand shot out to grip his arm. "One more question?" His back was turned but he remained still and she gathered up her courage. "Did you want to kiss me?"

Pulling gently out of her grasp, Doyle walked back to the door, leaving her gaping at the wall. Numb, she watched him open the door and step inside. Just before closing it, he turned back to her and even with the distance, she could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

"You have no idea." Then he was gone.

Wrapping the jacket tighter in the face of the cold, Cordelia peered out into the night sky. Why did people say there were answers up there? The numerous blinking plane lights served as the only stars one managed to see in this city. But Cordelia's heart was warmed immeasurably by his answer; a roundabout yes. A glint caught her eye just to her left. Looking to the wall's ledge, she found the bottle of scotch waiting where he had been standing. Something told her he'd left it intentionally and it made her smile. There were probably others inside, but worry caused wrinkles. She pondered how long it would take for her to replace his addiction and since thoughts of this type were new to her brain, it tried to dislodge it through a full-body shiver. It failed. She could think of a few habits that were less destructive and happened to require a pair of humans. A few more rooftop talks and they just might get somewhere. The destination was frightening, but the journey seemed more interesting than the demon she spotted in a mangled puddle below. Doyle's empty glass sat innocently next to her and she grinned at the liquefied corpse. Must be one of those 'liquor intolerant' types.

There was almost sympathy to be felt for the bubbling mass of death on the sidewalk. As surely as Cordelia Chase stood aloft on this safe rooftop, some part of her had firmly dived off into the unknown. The last of the twenty questions remained; can she fly?


	2. Chapter 2

_Zaedah appreciates you stopping by. May this little installment prove to be worth the glance. Feel free to drop a line either way..._

**Rooftop Diving**

Chapter Two

After a sleepless night, plagued with replays of twenty questions and one amazing kiss, Cordelia prepared for the workday with

After a sleepless night, plagued with replays of twenty questions and one amazing kiss, Cordelia prepared for the workday with particular attention to detail. Her outfit was chosen for the way it clung to her hips. Her shoes were brand new, because she knew he'd notice. Never mind the pennies they set her back. Make-up was light, giving her a refreshed look. On the drive in, she considered bringing him an espresso but struck down the urge for overkill. Had to play it subtle. She did, however, ensure an especially large bottle of aspirin found its way into her purse. Upon entering, her heart sank just a bit. He wasn't here yet. The blinds were still open from last night, something he normally corrected for their boss. His leather jacket was precisely were she'd left it last night. Nothing to do now but wait.

Filing was a job for the anal. Not that she struggled to alphabetize, but the H through L order always had her reciting the letter rhyme under her breath. Besides, it's not like their particular brand of clientele created much of a paper trail. If Angel would get the hang of charging, she'd at least have some checks to fiddle with. The notion of free service renewed her ability to huff and smile simultaneously.

Angel turned up an hour later, dressed in dark blue and looking for Doyle. The vampire required Doyle's knowledge of demon haunts and no amount of faking would make her helpful in that regard. She could give boutique recommendations but oddly, Angel had little use for that skill. And naturally, he failed to notice her shoes. Surprise. Another hour and Angel began to get antsy, not a comforting sight. Her neck itched just watching him pace. He then transitioned into shifting his weight in his office chair, watching the clock. Meanwhile, Cordy was jumping out of her skin, though she did her best to hide the odd leaping her skeleton was doing beneath her toned flesh. Angel had no idea what transpired last night and she wasn't about to share her revelation. Although the discussion would kill time; time wasted in silence for a tardy Irishman to show. The phone rang and she grabbed it like a dropped stack of benjamins but it was a wrong number. Since the phone was so conveniently in her hand, she looked both ways and then called his apartment. Nothing. What did either of these guys have against cell phones? Another hour and technology-adverse Angel came out to the reception area, shrugging on his trench coat.

"Kinda daylight boss." A hand was waved to the window, but of course he knew every tunnel personally.

"This isn't like him. I'm going to his place."

Snatching her purse, she followed without invitation. And the boss didn't question it. Surely he knew that if Cordy voluntarily entered the sewers, there would be no turning her away. They walked, well it was more of a slogging trample, in silence and the foreboding was stifling. Angel was purposely keeping an unhurried pace and she knew he didn't want to worry her by rushing. She'd have been grateful for the expediency but dared not speak it. Her shoes didn't come equipped for speed. Finally the thoughts in her head spilled into her mouth which moved her lips.

"He's okay, right?"

The sound of her voice must have startled Angel because he stopped in his tracks, a task made difficult with the sludge beneath. Considering for a moment, Angel put a hand on her arm. She was expecting reassurance but expectations were rarely met with him.

"Did he…say anything to you last night?"

Good thing she tanned this week or the blush would have lit up the tunnel. "Um, nothing pertinent to today's absence."

"That vision was hard on him. But he wouldn't tell me…" He trailed before getting back to her. "You two were on the roof for a while. What happened?"

Her spine straightened. "Well, that's a bit personal. We have lives too, you know. Not everything is superhero stuff for we mere mortals."

Raising his hands in surrender, Angel turned to continue the trek. Cordelia bit her lip, sorry for snapping but not ready to give him the truthful answer. She'd kissed Doyle and he'd walked away. Despite he admission of wanting it, he denied them the pleasure of a repeat. It didn't make sense. A week ago he'd have licked his apartment clean for a decent hug. But with the no-show this morning, one thing seemed clear; he was running from her. Fury at his apparent cowardice leached into the overriding concern.

They came up through a hole in a basement wall and Cordy shook her shoes to extricate the dense slime from the soles. Once they reached his door, Angel gave a few solid knocks. No response.

"Doyle?" Angel boomed. "Doyle, open the door." Another pause. "I'm coming in," Angel announced and produced a lock picking kit.

If it were anyone else, he'd have busted the door down. Cordy outwardly applauded his courtesy while wondering if she could muster enough force to knock the door down herself. In the back of her mind, she registered the fact that Doyle was better at breaking and entering. Though she could only guess where he'd learned it. Task finally completed, Angel turned the knob and the door swung freely into a very empty space. Cordelia gasped. No furniture, no books, no clothes. Nothing. She felt herself swaying on her feet.

"Angel?" Her whisper brought his eyes to hers. They mirrored her horror.

"I don't understand." The vampire sounded so very small in that moment. "Robbery?" He suggested.

Cordelia's vision got terribly hazy at that moment, the specks on the floor weaving like tiny figure skaters. "Why would he…"

Rejection, a familiar shadow dogging her epicly faulty life, never stood so close to her as this barren room did. And flight was a natural reaction to the blow. Out the door she fled, leaving the scene and a perplexed vampire behind her. Remnants of goo impeded her progress and she nearly crashed into a wall when her jog turned into a slide. Stumbled against a wall, the part of her brain not consumed with 'why' wondered if she could have performed a less graceful exit. The Chase women were not known for crying but the dry heaves were a specialty in their stead. Doyle was gone. And that fact was ruining her make-up faster than the sewer destroyed her shoes. He'd so pay for forcing this unattractive display from her. A hand patted her back but she only saw the flickering hall lights casting their gloom over her once fresh new start.

The rest of the day was a blur. Angel had led her back to the office and now, as sun set, she stood at the same ledge with the same bottle nearby. She couldn't bring herself to taste the liquor. But somehow it belonged here. Like he did. Didn't he know that? Unlike this morning, the hours flew by in her daze. Hearing a sound behind her, Cordy wiped at the tear tracks and prepared for the visitor. Angel had left her alone, at her request, since they got back. But that couldn't last. He was shooting for humanity after all, which meant vocal stabs at compassion.

"I'm sorry, Cordelia. I… tried. I can't find him." He stepped closer, mindful of the few still present rays. "Something tells me if he doesn't want to be found, there's not much we can do."

"Why did he do this?" It's the same question she'd been asking all night.

"Only Doyle could really answer that. But I think the vision's to blame."

She hadn't thought of that, too busy cursing her forwardness and those damn lips of his. Twisting her body to face the vampire, she took a deep breath. "How so?"

Inching closer as the sun continued to fade, Angel cast an eye to the bottle, but didn't ask. "We both know it was different from the others we've seen. When he first came here, he had all this…knowledge about my life. He was prepared to deal with me. Yet he said the PTB never speak to him directly. Only through visions. I assumed he saw my history in his head. Probably took a while too."

The 'huh' eyebrows slid into place. Forgive the blond moment, it had been a long day. "Still not getting you."

"He told you, didn't he? That he was sent to establish my conscience. Keep me from thinking that if the numbers were in my favor, I could eat a few humans and get away with it. He…" Angel's voice dropped in obvious melancholy. "He forced me to care. To get involved. And once he accomplishes that…"

"His work is done?" She finished. Who the hell made up this contract and why did Doyle ever sign it?

"I've been thinking. Presumably they would contact him by another vision. Tell him where to go next. Show him the next job. Display another history. Which might explain the length of yesterday's message. And why he chose to keep the details from us."

"He does that a lot, doesn't he?" Pause to sniff. Wipe nose on sleeve. Be embarrassed later. "I mean, we're not all judgy, right? So why don't we deserve some trust already?" Slapping her hand on the ledge as though a face lay across it, she ignored the sting to her palm and fought the frown. Because lines in the face were unacceptable.

It was frightening, the new light in which she was seeing the formerly one dimensional slacker. 'Life was crafted in the fire of change.' Or so went a line from her least celebrated high school plays. Change was stupid. And change was trying to make her ponder grown up circumstances when a pint of non-dairy, low fat, flavor resistant yogurt should have solved it all.

Perching on the wall, Angel looked out into the space where stars thrived… if one lived in Wyoming. Cordelia asked the same sky, glowing with neon and stadium lighting, why she had to make a move ultimately shunned. Not surprisingly, the atmosphere was as quiet as a brooding vampire.

And then Angel spoke. "I've tried to pin him down on so many things. He avoids divulging anything remotely personal unless there's no choice. And he's unbelievably tight lipped about his past." He sighed. "It's like, if we can't get to the real Doyle, it'll make things easier when he leaves."

Yeah, didn't work though, she groused. "Couldn't he say no?"

Angel laughed bitterly. "I got the impression that's not an option. He has to follow the visions."

"Then," she declared confidently, "we have to follow him." She snatched the bottle and headed for the door.

"If we can find him," Angel called to her retreating back.

With a brilliant smile, Cordy waved off the concern. "Got an ace in the hole." And her name was Willow.


	3. Chapter 3

_Special and extremely humble thanks to Otahyoni and Sare Kuruni for their encouragement and faithful readership._

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Three**

One call and one locator spell later, Angel and Cordy arrived at a private airstrip just south of L.A. The almost intimidating darkness of a moonless night concealed their approach as they headed to the most obvious place to find the Irishman; the airport bar. The lights inside the lobby were turned up full force, florescence doing battle with nature's cloaking cover and winning. For once, the negative effect on her skin's product-heavy glow was not a consideration.

To the few eyes that bothered to watch, Cordy and Angel looked like a couple on the outs; gazes focused in opposing directions to scan the scant populace for someone else, walking close enough to be paired together but far enough that conversation was difficult over instrumentals of yesteryear's hits. Cordy would have sworn she caught the wordless chorus to 'Come On Eileen.' Little focus was given to deciphering the next number as she was rather busy avoiding eye contact with the handful of leering men. How did some think flannel was still in?

Angel's seemingly aimless path veered back to her and their shoulders rubbed as he pointed to the overhead sign announcing liquor at the next corner. Mimicking a classically floundering spy, Cordy attempted to look inconspicuous as her gaze headed around the poster-laden wall while her body remained behind the sheet rock in a craning maneuver. A lone man took up a stool at the far end of the bar, having been served at least twice by her count of empty glasses. Not quite tall, black hair, bowling shirt and total disregard for proper posture. Nothing that stood out to capture attention, unlike Angel, who was garnering a collection of glances by a trailer-trash trio. Being an essentially private air strip and the hour approaching late, the bar was even less inhabited than the lobby, which aided the prospect of a successful confrontation. Squaring her shoulders, Cordy was about to make an entrance, but a hand on her shoulder held her in place.

"Let me try first?" At her prickly stare, he added, "'guy talk', you know?"

Hating to admit the logic, Cordy huffed her discontent but nodded anyway. Planting her feet in the oddly lush carpeting, she watched from her lurking position as Angel approached the bar. Doyle's shoulders tensed before Angel was even in sight and Cordy wondered if he had somehow sensed the vampire and by extension, had he sensed her too? Didn't a seer need to actually… see to be effective? Where did the intuitive stuff start? From this distance it required a bit of straining, but she could hear Angel's greeting. It was delivered with all the friendliness of a subpoena.

"Ordered one for me, I trust."

Reluctantly Doyle tilted his head to acknowledge his visitor and Cordelia could see his exhaustion clearly. Obviously he hadn't slept any better than she had, which covered no sins to be sure. Shaking his head, Doyle turned back to the bar and downed another drink with practiced ease. Seemingly, he was not terribly surprised to have his fleeing interrupted.

"Shouldna be here, Angel." Doyle's alcohol-thickened accent carried none of its typical warmth.

"Neither should you," the vampire parried as he took a seat beside him. The stool looked entirely too inadequate to hold his weight, but he managed the discomfort well. "A goodbye would have been nice. But then we'd have had to talk about it. And you just don't do that, do you? I mean, would it kill you to be an open book for just, I don't know, 5 minutes?" At Doyle's silence, Angel sighed, Cordy-esque tirade over. "I hate always having to drag things out of you."

"Feel free to stop trying." The coldness in his voice was so foreign. Another drink was tossed back and Cordy's feet were getting impatient. And so was Angel. His brow sunk low, lending a further hint of danger to his features. It was a tool so rarely needed and certainly not against a friend.

"What did your vision show you? And try not to lie." That put-upon voice was something Angel had recently perfected.

"I already gave ye what ye needed. The rest doesn' concern ye."

"Well, now it does. Because my first true friend in centuries is abandoning me without an explanation." Angel sighed, needing a new tactic. "At least I thought we were friends."

That softened the hard set of Doyle's shoulders. "I have to go, man." He whispered, the forced coldness replaced with remorse. "And ye have to let me."

"At least tell me why."

The waiter chose the brief lull in the discussion to swoop in with a full glass. Raising it quickly to his lips, Doyle stopped short of consuming it. With apparent effort, he returned carefully to the very center of the paper coaster and drew in a fortifying breath. "Look, job's done, yeah? Time to move on."

Leaning over the smaller man in a hover to rival a blimp, Angel's voice lowered enough that Cordy had to risk a step closer to hear him. "Your decision?"

"Never is." And with that, the glass was swiftly downed.

Backing off physically, Angel continued a track of cautious prying. "So, where are you going?"

"Can' tell you that."

Frustrated, Angel picked up the discarded glass, "Can't or won't?" The glass bore the brunt of his rising anger as Angel ended its further usefulness by strangulation in his closed fist. Everyone but Doyle jumped at the sound.

"It's slavery." He spat out.

"I prefer 'ungainful employment.' Has a better ring to it." The bartender wordlessly set about clearing the broken shards from the grasp of the sticky countertop. "And yer gonna get me thrown outta here."

"Good. We can make that happen. And maybe we can help you stay. But you have to be honest with me. For once, tell me everything you know."

Doyle laughed and with a gesture ordered another round. "Doesn' work like that. I don' expect ye to understand but…"

"What about Cordelia?" Angel threw his own sole dagger and her heart stopped in anticipation of the strike.

Silent for a long moment, Doyle rubbed a hand over his eyes. Cordelia ventured closer still, incase she wsa somehow missing his answer. Surely what would come next was a rapid change of heart, followed by a declaration of some sort and later, much later, a reenactment of their better rooftop activities.

But what she got was; "Give her a few days and she'll forget my name."

"You're wrong." Angel countered but the damage to her hope was done. She now knew how the liquefied demon felt.

Doyle leaned back on the stool, seeming confident that the debate was won. "I'm not."

"You are!"

Cordelia's angry voice brought both of them to their feet. There she stood, wearing his jacket and holding back all homicidal urges with a shield of girlish tears. Angel wisely backed away from them, matching every step forward that she took. Stopping inches from target, she forced her limbs to remain still at her side. The desire to hold him and smack him were fairly equal.

"What're ye doing?" The now-familiar question was voiced so softly, matching the emotions clouding his eyes.

The fury was snapped into shards and the remaining pieces molded into a cohesive strategy. "Averting a hostage situation. You wanted your jacket back, right?"

Accompanying the appraising glance was an expression of sheer affection. "Still looks better on you."

Always quick with the compliment, her Doyle. "You're right. But in everything else, you're so wrong."

"I sense a fight comin'," he muttered, taking a step back to reclaim his seat. Cordy immediately bridged the gap to stand between his knees in a show of coercion for which his sharp breath said he wasn't prepared.

"If that's what it takes. See, you're running out on me and Queen C can't allow that. Bad for my reputation. And since your lips are going with you, it means I can't kiss them anymore. And neither of us wants that, do we? Besides, it's the only way you get…your jacket back."

"What makes you think I want…_it_?" And suddenly they weren't talking clothes anymore.

She ran her hands down the soft brown leather. He watched their progress with exceeding concentration. "I see the way you look at _it_. You want _it_. But you think you can't have _it_."

"Maybe I don't deserve _it_."

"Maybe," she inched closer, "you're afraid to consider otherwise. I realize I'm fabulous and higher class than you may be used to. But if you stayed…"

Sighing, Doyle lowered his gaze. "I don' have a say in this. Ye have to let me go."

Her hand rose to his chin, forcing his eyes back to hers. "I'm asking you to stay. Do you remotely understand how hard that is for me? To say, 'hey world, I need something.' Or someone. But I'm asking." The last bullet was loaded. "And if you love me, you won't refuse me."

No painful visions were required to see there was an awful lot of deliberation going on in his head. Disconcerting as it was to know an inner discussion was needed, at least there weren't any shoulder angels and devils being consulted. When his hands found their way to her hips, the beginnings of hope stirred in her belly. But then he used the contact to draw her just far enough away to allow him to step around her. Doyle headed to the nearby bench to retrieve a large backpack that, for its abandoned appearance, should have alerted security.

And her hands threw themselves to the heavens. "Do not walk away from me again." Her legs wouldn't move to chase him but her desperate tone must have done enough. He shouldered the pack but took no further steps. "What happens if you refuse them?" He bit his lip, holding back any answer. "What happens?" She yelled then lowered her tone to add, "And I want the truth."

"The visions'll get worse. And they won't let up til...I obey."

"Or?"

"Or they destroy me."

It sounded every bit the death sentence Cordelia knew it to be and she surmised, "and you know this from experience."

He nodded. Looking back a bit longingly at the bar, Cordy suspected he would give up all claims to his jacket to get his hands on one more drink. At her rather insistent stare, a painful swallow was taken and he explained.

"When I'd refused to come to L.A.. Granted I can be stubborn as liquid sidewalk, but eventually the pain won. The first step toward California and it stopped. So what would you have me do?"

The lack of options paralyzed her tongue. Angel was right; it _was_ slavery. The PTB would rather destroy his mind than let him live his own life. What could one badly dressed human do to deserve that fate? Cordy caught sight of Angel, maintaining his distance while looking equally shocked at this revelation. They had to let him go or lose him anyway.

Waterworks have such an effect on men. Exhibit A was Doyle reluctantly approaching, every step in time with each of her tears. Standing before her, he dropped the overstuffed bag and cradled her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped the tracks from her cheeks as she studied those green eyes intently. They spoke his distress at leaving, making forgiveness immediate. Being ripped from the life they'd established as a trio broke his heart as thoroughly as hers. Cordy wanted to tell him so much in that moment. But words had a way of getting her into trouble, so lacking other recourses she leaned up, intending to reacquaint herself with his lips. But holding her face as he was, he controlled how close Cordy got. And insured she didn't reach her target.

"Cordelia," he warned.

"Princess!" The sudden snap startled them both. Looking to the floor, she quickly added, "You haven't called me Princess for, like, two days."

"You hate when I call you that." Doyle lowered his hands but to her relief, didn't move away.

"Love it, actually. Not that I'd have told you. That would be admitting…stuff. And we don't do that. But I'm gonna dust off the 'admit' box, so get ready."

For the first time since this mess began, Doyle looked panicked. Not that she'd let that shut her up.

"When you call me Princess, I feel like one. Like I matter and my failures don't. Like you see me for me, not the fabulous actress/model I'm supposed to be by now. It, um, tells me I have worth to someone. And it's been too long since anyone did that."

Some measure of relief floated over his prior distress at her impending words. Nice to know she could surprise him.

"While we're bein' all confessional and such." The reluctant shrug spoke to his lacking desire to engage in said confession. "Three years I've been doin' this for them. And before L.A., I woulda done anyt'ing to get out. And maybe self-destruction has been an occasional goal. Very nearly achieved." He paused when Cordy took his hand, a gesture too old fashioned to be a fixture in her repertoire. "Ye gave me…a reason. And it's been too long since anyone did that."

She smiled at her words being returned to her, knowing this level of honesty was like nails in palms to them both. "Okay, so mucho time wasted in denial, a river I'm personally gonna drain. There has to way to reroute this whole 'escape the migraine' plan."

From the corner of her eye, Cordy saw a man signal Doyle for departure. "I'm sorry…Princess."

The way the name rolled off his tongue so nicely shredded her heart into shiny bits. Arms threw themselves around his neck and the rest of her body followed its intent. As though physical contact was the solution that would keep him there, her mouth sought connection with his. But once more the grand scheme was halted as Doyle's hands on her waist held her back. The pleading in his eyes was new to her, and she hated its presence.

"Please… don' make this harder."

What was with all this rejection? "But I love you," the words erupted from her but they clearly failed to have the impact she intended.

Doyle looked away, clearly clamping down his sudden anger that rose like insurgents to battle the once-improving mood. "Well, that's convenient." The venom in his tone startled her and the edges of the man before her sharpened into that of a stranger.

Seeking to diffuse the turn, Cordy softened her voice. "When I hinted that you loved me, you didn't protest. So don't assume you're the only one who gets to have feelings."

Sensing it was his urn to placate, he held her gaze a bit more willingly. "It's just…sudden, is all."

"Then let me come with you." His brows furrowed at such an unexpected request. "If you won't stay, then we'll go together. And you'll see this isn't just a ploy." He was already shaking his head, but before he could reply…

"Wait!" A third voice startled them both. Angel came into view, hands up in supplication. In one hand, a cell phone was gripped firmly. "Hear me out."

"Angel, man…"

"I know," Angel's understanding smile was an infrequent sight. "You're just about talked out, but listen to me. They won't…force you into compliance right away, will they?"

Doyle shrugged. "No idea. I don' _not_ comply too often. Hurts a bit, yeah?"

Cordy's arms remained in their locked position, but she shifted to face Angel. "Tell me you have a plan."

Looking just a little embarrassed, Angel took the last few steps to join them. "Not so much a plan as…a hope for one."

Neither missed Doyle's eye roll. Cordy sighed, knowing this was an anorexic tactic at best. Thin as a starved model, actually. A jumpsuit-wearing worker cleared his throat behind them and Doyle gave him a quick nod before returning his attention to Angel. Outside a small plane began warming, prepared to leave for somewhere she wasn't allowed to be.

"Unless this 'hope for a plan' materializes in the next 2 minutes, it's time." It was part ultimatum, part apology. And all serious.

Angel, stubborn as petrified sidewalk, tried again. "Come back with us. Give us time to find a solution."

"Angel…"

"Listen to me. I know they can use visions to force you to leave, and if the pain gets too much, then go. But give us a chance. I'm told we're a team that gets things done."

As she watched, Cordy could recognize the effect they were finally having. Doyle's focus fell on her and she clamped down on her tongue to keep from unappealing begging. Angel backed off, hands shoved in tailored pockets, knowing the decision would rest between the non-couple before him.

"What're ye doin' Princess?"

It was the fourth time he'd asked her that and this time, she had an answer. "Falling in love. Care to join me?" Yes, it was the essence of corny stolen from yet another horrific play, but at least his reaction was more muted compared to her love declaration.

"Even if it can't last?" There was no bite behind the challenge, the fight having departed with the waiting plane.

"That wasn't an answer. You forfeit. Game over." When he laughed softly, the tiny fractures of her heart came together again.

"No more games," he chided lightly.

"And no more secrets."

A flash in his eyes told her there was more she didn't know. Swallowing the immediate questions, she decided to wait for him. The overhead pub sign went out with a crackle, signaling the closing of the bar.

Cordelia hoped her saleswomanship, if not her acting, had improved. "This can last. We just have to find a way. We're Angel Investigations. We're that good."

Falling silent, she watched the war within him escalate from the skirmish to which it had been reduced. She was well aware what she was asking. And it hurt all the more to see Doyle withdraw further from her as he slipped out of her loosened embrace. The airport worker's reflection could be seen in the large window behind Doyle, obviously eager to reschedule their customer's flight. Angel had gone to him, undoubtedly to seek patience. But the man was now beyond frustrated and he went through the most obnoxious clearing of his throat. Doyle cast his gaze to the man, then leaned down to pick up his bag. The decision had been made and like so many other attempts at success in her adult life, Cordy found the cement shoes of failure weighing her down. He was leaving.

Doyle raised a mildly trembling hand to run through her hair before directing his attention to the waiting employee, now fuming to the brink of implosion. When Doyle shook his head, Cordy nearly fainted. Chalk one up for the saleswoman. The fact that success had required a staggering amount of near-physical dragging was painfully ignored. As the trio trekked across the dimly lit parking lot, each plane that departed overhead was wished a safe and Doyle-less landing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Four**

Never ride in the head funeral car, her mother used to say. When grandparents or siblings departed, Cordy's parents would take on the look of prisoners being led to the gallows. They'd shuffle off to the waiting shiny black vehicle, always forcing her to ride a few cars back, usually with an over-perfumed aunt. Cordelia never understood the reason she wasn't allowed to sit with her folks on a day when parental comport might be warranted. Now she knew.

Like a pack of immediate family huddling in mournful silence, the trio drove through a rising fog. Cordelia sat back, trying not to label the mist 'ominous.' That was no way to start. Instead, she focused on body position, making sure her shoulder subtly rested against a deadly quiet Irishman. Having prearranged the details with Angel on their way to the airport, she knew he'd be dropping her off first. She'd figured if they'd somehow convinced Doyle to abandon his escape plan, getting him to come home with her should be relatively easier. 'Should be' rarely equated to fact.

When Angel stopped at her curb, Cordy exited the caddy, holding the car door open in invitation. Reluctant in else everything lately, this crucial moment was no different. Fight or flight didn't quite cover it as Doyle looked like he was wishing hard to blend into the caddy's upholstery. Her heart rhythm faltered as the Irishman seemed to consider refusing her and she pondered why she never traveled with a crane. But her pulse restarted at a sprint when he grabbed his bag and followed her out of the vehicle. The fact that the decision came with a sigh did little to dampen her enthusiasm to play hostess. With a dismissive wave to their boss, Cordy thrust the key in the lock and turned.

Inside, phantom Dennis had switched on a few lights, keeping the glow muted and warm. The ghost truly had the touch of an interior designer. Her place was a study in controlled disarray, an old habit from her trashy apartment days. Finally having a nice home didn't guarantee magazine quality rooms. But it hadn't reached critical mass and she couldn't have cared if it had. The company wasn't likely to mind. The company who hadn't spoken since the airport and would possibly bolt before she figured out how to get him talking. Not her strong suit, this Dr. Phil stuff. Plus, the bald look was so not flattering.

Doyle set his backpack on the floor beside the sofa as Cordy scuttled off to the kitchen. He'd need a bit of reviving coffee after the multiple shots at the bar. And the caffeine would keep any of her stray yawns at bay until after they'd had a chance to 'open up.' Which she prayed they would because silence did little to advance romance. Something told her the prying tactic would be the most used tool in her arsenal. Fortunately, a strategically placed hair flip usually got mouths to gap, and hopefully actual words would follow. Shrugging off his jacket, she laid it tenderly across a kitchen chair.

Preparing two emergency espressos, Cordy was about to return to the living room with her tray of wakefulness when Dennis's form protruded from the dry wall. Seldom used, this means of communication was usually reserved for the most important messages. The specter put a phantom finger to phantom lips. Shifting into 'spy mode, Cordelia entered the darkened room to find Doyle on the couch, elbows on knees and head in hands. Did he have another vision or was this a manifestation of an excessively long day? Depositing the tray on the end table with stealth Martha Stewart would choke over, Cordy sat beside him and slid an arm across his shoulders.

"You still with me?" There was a concerted effort to keep the concern out of her whisper.

He raised his head, but not his gaze. "Just tired."

"Running away is tiring work, no offense." Flashing him a radiant smile, Cordy turned to the table. "But never fear. I have super strong esophagus-eroding coffee."

Doyle accepted the proffered cup with a good measure of hesitance. And suddenly it felt like any other day because she wanted to smack him. What was it with these guys and their mockery? She passed home ec with a solid C.

"I'll have you know this was made by a very expensive appliance. Gotten at reduced cost, mind you. Sure the manual came in only Chinese, but one button operation means even I can't screw it up." Rambling wasn't just a verb, it was a state of mind.

A smile graced his features and the first sip went down without complaint. But he returned the cup to the tray and that urge to smack him returned with blaring sirens. Had it been alcohol, she'd have had to wrench the liquid from his hand, possibly by amputation. Trying the brew herself, the smooth bitterness flowed past her throat most satisfyingly. Well worth the money, that machine. It relaxed her enough to attempt putting petrified cards on the proverbial table.

"I was hoping you'd stay here." At the look he shot her, she hurriedly added, "if you want. Tonight. With me."

"Why?"

It was less a question than a dare. This was made clear by the piercing stare usually only accomplished by an enraged Angel. Clearly he wanted to make her explain it, maybe to see if she'd truly thought this out. Had she? Um… Keeping her eyes glued to the remaining brown liquid in her tiny cup, Cordy prepared to voice the day's musings in what she hoped was a convincing, mature way.

"I know you think this is all a little sudden. Like on the roof last night. Thing is, I've been watching you. Been doing it for a while actually." She paused, daring to look at him before clarifying. "Ever since that vision, I've been thinking that maybe I could know you better. And by better, I mean as future date material. Anyway, I think it really started the night before Harry. You know, when you saved me from that mullet-haired vampire?"

Doyle nodded. "I remember."

"See, old money and new stuff is supposed to make me happy. That night I had both in front of me and it just annoyed me. Only I didn't want it anymore. I was completely irritated with myself, cuz if I didn't want that, what the hell did I want? Then the vampire attacked and Mr. Armani ran away like a girl on fire. And then you showed up." Taking a deep breath, she prayed they were ready for this. "And standing next to Mr. Blue Boxes in my head, you looked like exactly what I should be chasing. If I chased, that is. Of course, I stuffed that realization down under impressively snarky comments." Cordy bumped her shoulder to his. "I'm good at the whole 'snarks are oxygen' thing, you know?"

His forgotten cup was picked back up in an obvious stall for time and he put effort into his slow drain of the espresso. "Your 'stuffing' ability is even more impressive. Cuz ye coulda fooled me."

Ouch, band-aid anyone? "Except it never went away. And last night it came up like an explosion from the hellmouth. And don't tell me you didn't feel any different when we kissed." He bit his lip and she plowed on. "So the thing is, now when I look at you, I see a future. And I want that."

"Ye want somet'ing I can't give." The statement was a condemnation of her hopes. He was so averse to every step forward she tried to take and she didn't know how to combat such abject unwillingness other than strong armed shoving.

"Because of the PTB? Or is there more?"

When he hung his head, the room seemed to darken. Cordy wanted to ask Dennis to crank up the recessed lighting, maybe stoke a fire. But her eyes were too busy trying to burn through the man beside her. "I used to think maybe," he began but wherever he was going dead-ended.

"What did you used to think?"

He rose from the sofa, stopping at the fog-kissed bay window to lean on the frame. Cordy watched from her seat, afraid that approaching him would ensure he didn't talk. And she so needed to understand what went on in his head that giving him space seemed the only alternative.

"How can ye say any of this when ye don' know me?"

"How can I know you when you won't let me? When you keep so many secrets? You know, this is America, land of trust. So be patriotic and trust someone already. I'm asking for it to be me."

His eyes dropped to the floor. "If ye knew…Ye'd wish I'd gotten on that plane."

Bolting to her feet, Cordelia forced herself to maintain the distance he'd put between them. "Not possible. Let me prove you wrong."

"I can't."

If it's a fight he wants, Queen C can deliver and snark oxygen began flowing into her lungs. "Because you're gonna leave anyway, right? Maybe before dawn. Or maybe you'll do us a big huge favor and give it a few days. And then you'll be back at the airport bar itching to board a flight to someplace where trust is a bad word."

Failing to bite, Doyle presented the face of an adult to match her petulance. "I'll do what's best for everyone."

A V-8 forehead smack hurt her hand as well as her head, but she pressed on. "How can your leaving accomplish that? Sure as hellmouth isn't best for us!"

Frustration crept into his voice. "There is no us, Cordy."

Direct hit. "Doesn't mean there can't be. Eventually. But if you won't try, then there's no harm in telling me." She forced her hands to unclench. "You really want me to let you go? Give me a reason."

Aware that the challenge could push him over the edge, she could only school her emotions, preparing them for whatever he might say. The atmosphere shifted into a further darkness and she knew he'd just accepted the challenge. And it scared her.

"Ye forget that I know ye, Cordelia." His eyes bore into her, making her squirm just a bit. "What ye want is a normal life. And ye can' have that with me."

"I want a life with you in it. Normal or otherwise." She insisted. "You acted like you wanted a chance and me handing it to you isn't doing anything for you?"

Stalking to her, Doyle's gaze intensified and she had to resist taking a step back. "What if I was a mass murderer? What if I wasn't… human?"

His stance and his tone were meant to intimidate her. And it was working. "But those things aren't true."

"Would it matter if they were?" He pressed.

"No," She spoke firmly, trying to force her certainty through his doubts.

"Ye sure about that?"

And for a split second, a well known face altered into something entirely different.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Five**

The change was so fast she almost missed it. But she caught the red eyes and dark face of a spiked demon just before the image of her Doyle returned. Gasping out a breath, Cordy tried and failed to speak. He couldn't be…When her mouth decided to work, her voice came out in a sputter.

"W-why did…why are you doing this?" Hysterics were appropriate but she lacked the energy. The oxygen was gone form the room, evidenced by her lightheaded sway. Doyle now appeared completely normal, except that he'd multiplied. Shaking her head to clear her double-vision, Cordelia pointed a trembling finger. "It's not nice to trick people."

Taking a step back, Doyle held up innocent hands. "No trick."

"Stop it!" The petulant demand, complete with foot stomp, reverberated through the house, hurting her ears. Or was that from the approaching migraine? Her guest, expected to supply an explanation, instead added to the heavy silence gathering between them.

A few breaths later, thoughts had still not formed into lucidity in her head. So she gave up the effort. "I-I don't u-understand."

"One of the secrets ye asked for, darlin'." How could anyone with such an upperhand sound so defeated?

Shock wore into numbness, threatening to take her legs from under her. Thankfully, Phantom Dennis supplied a chair, instantly the savior of her dignity. Conclusions were hard to reach with a backfiring brain but she was sure one plus one equaled two. So what did spiky face and good ol' Doyle equal?

"You're a…a demon?"

Retreating to the window, Doyle's expression softened along with the harshness of his voice. "Half demon," he corrected her. "T'ank the father I never met for those genes. Can' imagine why I didn' tell ye."

It was the bitter tone, biting and loathing at once, that prompted a decision. It was very clear if she didn't deal with this here and now, she'd lose him. Not by his choice or actions, but by her own hesitance. Cordy had never imagined that she could be frightened of the office slacker in bad shirts and yet she had to force herself to remember a crucial fact; demon blood did not change who he was. It was an absurd mantra to cling to, but it was a better alternative to screaming. Swallowing her fear, Cordelia forced herself to stand while having no earthly notion what to say. Until her lips uttered the entirely unscripted,

"Show me again."

That one surprised him. "No," his tone was resolute and truth be told, her body relaxed with shamed relief in the refusal.

The approach was painfully slow and strained, but Cordy arrived before him and took in the features so often ignored. Now they were beyond welcome, spikeless and thoroughly human. She put a hand to his jaw, ensuring eye contact.

"I guess… Look, if it's part of you, then, "deep dramatic breath, "I accept it." Her voice lacked any trace of judgment even as it held no particular eagerness.

Maybe he knew that because a disapproving frown slid into place. "I can' even accept it." He covered her hand, pressing her knuckles to his skin for just a moment before releasing her and stepping back out of reach. "Ye've had no trouble expressin' yer opinion on demons. Should I recite it back to ye?"

"Okay, so demons aren't my favorite species." The careless shrug was intended to give a hint of apology. "I also don't like clowns. Or mimes. Oh, and tax collectors."

Doyle was supposed to smile at the attempt to lighten the mood. He was supposed to forget her negative comments about demon-kind. But the impression of a cold stone was still being employed by his face.

"Never heard ye call tax collectors disgusting or evil. Ye tend to reserve that harshness for the really bad guys."

"That was never meant for you." Her ignorance lain so bare, she'd never felt more ashamed in her life. "I am so very sorry."

It was rude to turn one's back. But when he turned to the window, engaging the night sky in a staring contest, Cordelia took the chance to wipe at the moisture that formed just inside her eyelids. The moon lent the slightest glow to his frame as he stood before the curtain-less window, highlighting his typical lack of concern for posture. The shoulder sag, the one that greeted her on the rooftop that night, returned in force. His anger was fading, but what would it be replaced with? Mood shifts rarely boded well mid-argument.

"Cordy, I can' fault yer opinion when I share it. Much as I wish otherwise, passin' as human doesn' make me human. One of many t'ings I can' fix."

Had she bothered to clean her windows in the last…well, had she ever cleaned her windows, she could have better viewed his reflection. Of course, the raging fog didn't help. But there was enough visible in the misted outline for her to know an olive branch needed extending. Or perhaps the whole tree.

Employing her most rational voice, Cordelia aimed for maturity. "Not exactly a deal breaker, no matter what my stupid mouth said before. It doesn't have to stop us."

"But it does. This is why my marriage ended. This is how I earned the visions. And it's every barrier 'tween me and the rest of the world."

If an argument can get old the first time around, it was there now. Suddenly his being a demon was hardly an issue. Stage two of first near-couple fight involved using non-human status to avoid commitment. Human, demon, vampire, tree frog, it didn't matter. Guys were still guys. Self pity wasn't a good look for him and wallowing was so not happening on her watch.

"And this is you refusing to break that barrier."

Turning sharply on his heel, Doyle was apparently not playing along with the intervention reenactment. "And this is Cordelia Chase decidin' out of nowhere she wants the poor, drunken fixer-upper."

"Well, maybe Cordelia does!" Why was she shouting? That wasn't keeping a mature stance. The deep breath required to regain her adult vibe rattled in her lungs like a chain smoker. "Maybe, you know, Cordelia decided being your princess was the best gig in town."

"Don' say that." His voice dropped to a pleading whisper.

She smiled, sensing there was only one thing left to do. "Don't you know by now? I don't listen to you."

Leaning up, she brushed her lips to his several times, allowing him the choice to seek more. And he didn't disappoint her. His hand tangled in her hair as the other found her waist, pulling her closer. And just like their rooftop kiss, their tongues acted as magnets, drawn with compelling force to each other. Her hands slid up his chest, grasping the material of his shirt to ensure he didn't bolt without dragging her with him. A fierceness took over but Doyle tamed her tongue, slowing down her franticness. Cordy's mind, foggy as the world outside, registered his self control and briefly wondered what it would take to snap it. Apparently she wasn't going to find out just yet because Doyle pulled away.

"Why're ye fighting so hard for this?"

The easy answers sprang to mind but they would do little good. The better question was why he was fighting so hard against this. But they were tiring from the verbal Olympics. They'd surely talked more in the last two days than in their entire association combined. Cordelia tilted her face up to him, willing him to cooperate with her next move.

"Come to bed."

"Princess…" there was that damned reluctance again, but for her idea's merit she had a ready argument.

"You need sleep. Preferably before you collapse. And I'd like to look fresh when we pick up this never ending argument tomorrow. Which is now, by the way."

He grimaced as his eyes met the mantle clock. "I suppose I don't have a home to flee to, huh?"

"True. And I'm not asking for anything else." She grinned as she released him. "Yet."

Heading for her room, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, hip sway fully employed. Sometimes she truly loved being a woman. Dennis turned on her light and she smiled her thanks. Sitting at the foot of her bed, Cordelia slipped off her nearly designer shoes and threw them across the room in the broad direction of her closet. The loud bang of chunky heels echoed in the quiet. A light chuckle snapped her eyes upward where she found Doyle leaning on the door jam.

"Mistreatin' new shoes is unlawful. Choose yer sentence." The deeply missed teasing lightened the atmosphere of the planet and she was eager to keep it going.

Her fingers drifted to the hem of her sweater, which she removed slowly to reveal a purple tank top. The feel of his eyes tracking her movement with undisguised interest did such things to her heart rate. While dabbling with the idea of testing their limits, she knew how exhausted he must be and curbed her physical inclinations, if not her words.

"As punishment, I'll endure a night with you," a pat on the mattress, "right here. Four walls make a cell, right?"

Rising to her feet, Cordy had to threaten her arms with dismemberment to keep them at her sides. Because of his hesitance since this mess started, she waited for Doyle to make the next move.

"Cruel and unusual. Beg and I'll reduce yer sentence." He pushed off the threshold, crossing the room to stand before her.

Her decision to refrain from touching him was approaching impossible. Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't bait him. "And if I beg to extend it?"

"I'll declare ye criminally insane."

Leaning in until her lips hovered just a breath from his, her sexiest voice was invoked. It was last month's voice, practiced relentlessly for that deodorant commercial she very nearly got.

"I'm a compelling case. But you like it."

"Don' I just."

The minuscule distance between them was erased when Doyle's head dipped to capture her willing lips. Her tongue immediately sought the haven of his mouth, tasting and exploring him. Doyle's hands tugged her hips closer while hers slid into his short hair, pulling his mouth harder against hers. It didn't matter that he had spent their entire working relationship lying to her. It was forgotten that the PTB wanted to take him from her. Reality took shape in the boldness of his fingers sliding under her shirt, the heat pulsing in her veins and the moan that welled in her throat. And if she didn't stop now, there'd be no rest for him tonight. Getting her lips to comply with said logic was not an immediate success, but Cordy finally tore away from him, panting and just a bit speechless. Attempting to recover while under his questioning scrutiny, Cordy took a steadying breath.

"What do they teach you guys in Ireland?"

"Was that an actual compliment?" Doyle's grin eased the throb of truth; she'd been stingy with such things where he was always more than generous. It was like he had a daily quota to fill while she had long treated niceties like an exasperating burden.

"Don't get used to it. You still can't dress worth a damn."

Doyle rolled his eyes. "She giveth and she taketh away."

"She giveth a promise of continuance…" Flopping back onto the mattress, she extended a hand, "after we've gotten some sleep."

His gaze swept the bed, weariness shadowing his features. Taking her offered hand, Doyle allowed Cordy to draw him down to lay beside her. Her head quickly assumed a spot on his chest, her hand splaying on his shoulder. Cordelia held her breath for the protest, as her presumptuous proximity was entirely uninvited. It never came. Rather, Doyle's hand found her waist and pulled her more securely to him. Her bed, newly bought for this house, had sadly never been shared, a fact left out of all conversations with her high school chums. Now she wondered how she ever slept in it without him. They simply fit. To accentuate her conclusion, she cautiously slid a leg between his and felt his hand tighten on her hip, as though assuring her it was alright.

"Don't let me wake up alone," she warned him.

"'Kay." His voice was even more endearing when he was sleepy, she decided.

The notion of willingly allowing a demon in her bed failed to register the horror it should have. This was no demon, this was Doyle. The man she trusted more than anyone. The man she adored despite all attempts otherwise. As Dennis dimmed the lights to full darkness, she lay entwined with him praying in earnest that the PTB would give them time.

Despite the achingly long day, neither slept. Instead, two people engaged in a study of each other; the echo of heartbeats and the rasp of nervous breathing were lessons learned in darkness. In the few hours until daylight, utter silence brought them closer than lengthy discussion had thus far accomplished. But later, as the sun considered emerging it carried with it the first rays of trouble.

* * *

_In truth, I'm not entirely sold on this chapter. So please feel free to share your opinion, dear reader._


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter is offered in gratitude to those who kept after me to continue the story._

**Rooftop Diving**

Chapter Six

In the first rays of dawn, the body at the bottom of the limb pile detangled from the one above and slipped from the bed. Darkness was determinedly clinging to the room, making a quiet departure impossible. The bed's remaining occupant was content to simply listen to the bumping and scuffs of one unfamiliar with the furniture layout. Eventually the warmth of California's smoggy sunrise crept hotly across Cordelia's skin as she nestled into the crater their combined weight had formed in the mattress and nursed an irrational morning hope that her guest wouldn't stray far. Doyle was a loiterer by nature and the image of him wandering about her home came with a soundtrack of evidential noises. A spare thought was given to certain intimate items that guests shouldn't feast eyes upon, but a quick mental inventory assured her that the good little girl had put all her toys away.

There was comfort in that big bed, a slight breeze keeping the approaching heat at bay over the next 30 minutes. Still, that half hour was lacking; something was missing. Something expressed in a groan and followed by manicured feet finding the floor. A grab at a robe and a turn of the knob and Cordy trailed the waking sunbeams down the short hall and into the brightness of her kitchen. And into the arms of breakfast.

It was a shame to have such a large kitchen go to waste but any attempts past unwrapping a pop tart pushed safe cooking boundaries. Now, it looked like a cooking show in progress. The sight of a half-demon working intently over her stove did more than raise an eyebrow. It forced two dry lips apart in fish formation. Not a look that would find a home in her portfolio. An omelet made with eggs she didn't remember purchasing was apparently on the menu, paired with orange juice served in 'Viva Las Vegas' shot glasses. When the toast popped up, she nearly had an out of body event. And since when did she own artery-clogging butter? Evidently, she'd lounged in bed long enough for Doyle to venture to the corner store and stock her fridge with essentials not offered at Starbucks, her personal sanctuary for morning nutrition.

"The stove works. Who knew?" She mused by way of greeting and settled onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Previously laden with unruly stacks of mail, it now displayed place settings. With folded napkins. Folded? "And five am is never too early to start planning a banquet."

Doyle ignored the punctuating yawn of his patron. "Ye weren't missin' much. Well, besides the food. And the condiments. Oh, and a 'Kiss the Cook' apron woulda been a nice touch."

"And the quikee mart didn't stock those? Shame. And you think wearing it would get you something?"

Oh, but it so would and she was suddenly cursing herself for not flossing this morning. His teasing sideways glance came standard with a twinkle, as good a package deal as she'd ever seen. Were she honest, the man wasn't handsome. There was no strong jaw, no imposing stature. Both features and build would qualify for the label 'slight.' He would by no means turn heads, a mandatory quality in her overpriced catalogue of attractiveness. But the phrase 'looks aren't everything' was finally starting to make sense. Revelations, so much a vanished enemy, were making a habit of showing up in her head like pop-up video bubbles. This latest one said: looks don't equal love.

Oblivious to her 80th epiphany in two days, Doyle shrugged with uncharacteristic confidence. "Suggestive aprons'll replace pick-up lines one day, mark my words. But now we'll never know what it'd get me."

Those between-the-line hints would get him in trouble some day, Cordelia decided. But this morning they'd get him exactly what he wanted. She slid off the smooth laminated wood of the stool and sidled to the chef's side, exchanging a far more expressive and damned thorough 'good morning.' And the delicate eggs were forgotten, to their flavor's detriment and the possible safety of the kitchen. The diced tomato, with its protesting juices sizzling to a boil, kept their decidedly non-cooking activity from expanding. A masterly flip of the spatula and the enormous omelet presented a well-cooked underside that produced the most inelegant grumbles from her stomach.

"So, apron-less master cook, what else can you do with a spatula?"

The utensil paused mid-movement as the comment filtered into his brain. The reply was there, hanging off the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it in favor of casting an eye to the colorful conglomeration of ingredients in the oversized pan. And those not-handsome-but-growing-on-her features turned pitiful, betraying a man caught.

"Sorry to say, yer beholdin' the vast extent of my culinary skill. Unless ye count my proficiency in bartendin'."

Cordelia resumed her place at the table with a shake of her head. "Only you would consider mixed drinks a meal."

"Don't knock what ye haven' tried. Ye'd be surprised at the variety one can Invent with a bit of imagination and ten bucks."

Cordy cringed as she indeed imagined. Now wasn't the time to explain that this was the one thing she aimed to change about his chosen lifestyle. Well, aside from the clothes which went without saying. Moments later, a giant omelet was divided with all the precision of open heart surgery and triangular toast was placed at the corner of her favorite square plates. God bless Martha Stewart and her conveniently priced Kmart line. The bits of green pepper, tomato and unidentifiable spices produced a dish almost too pretty to mangle with her hovering fork. Doyle has no such reluctance as he tucked into his creation with the eagerness of the mortally starved. Her amused smile split to make room for an overloaded forkful. And soon after, her rate of consumption matched his and changed her whole notion of reliance on an expensive liquid breakfast.

This stageplay of domesticity was well worth the loss of beauty sleep. But like an inexperienced actor, Doyle fell artlessly out of character. As with her trophies, some of the shine wore off to expose the imperfections beneath his demeanor. In Doyle's case, what lay underneath was worry. Cordy swallowed her barely chewed bite of toast and waited with anxious breaths for what might come next. It took a moment for Doyle to recognize that he was the center of her focus, the attention breaking the cloud of intensity that had settled. But she knew it hadn't drifted far. Still, his smile was welcome, despite the embarrassment that shadowed it.

"Pay no mind to me, Princess. Just thinkin'."

Her fork clattered onto the clearance-rack plate in her rush to take his hand. It was an odd compulsion, but once the contact was made, it seemed to cement her ability to speak. A shy stroke of his knuckles and the words came.

"You're thinking how weird it is to be here. You're thinking, what next? You're thinking we've spontaneously become different people overnight. And maybe you're thinking how radiant I am despite not touching a brush to my hair yet."

The easy grin failed to reach his eyes. "Maybe a bit of that, yeah."

The way his fingers flexed under hers, the way his shoulders tightened enough to steal inches from their span, Cordelia knew what he was truly thinking couldn't be categorized under 'Delicious Ways to Spend a Day Off.'

Doyle leaned back from the table, taking his hand with him. Domestic

"Feels like borrowed time. I'm not sure I like that."

Cordelia stood for the simple fact that height gives authority to logic. So what if said logic was borrowed from a fortune cookie? "If you act like it's gonna end, it will."

Eye roll? Check. Standing as well, Doyle's stance was a mix of 'my logic's better than your logic' and 'I'm not as short as I appear.'

"Look, we can't pretend my ignoring orders'll go unnoticed forever. They've got plans and I doubt they're gonna hire someone to fill my vacancy. Destiny doesn't use a temp agency."

"And we're to blame for their inefficiency? I don't think so."

The fork was reclaimed and the poor omelet paid the price. Her attempt to resume their earlier serenity included stabs of metal to earthenware in a scrapes that rivaled nails on the chalkboard. The sun blared a reminder that the day was moving forward just outside the windows and its cheerful glare sought to contaminate the moment. A gesturing finger disembodied against a wall reminded her to get things back on track. Picking up her shot glass, Cordy threw it back the way they do in the movies and the cough was immediate. Hacking is hardly the costume of the suave and as the sputtering continued, the pat of a hand on her back made her feel all the worse. What five year old hadn't mastered the art of swallowing orange juice?

Once the spitting portion of the meal had concluded, Doyle led her to the living room and deposited her on the couch. A glass of water was fetched, which she sipped with all caution. Crouching before her, Doyle's grin finally hit every feature as the sun's rays haloed his black hair. Setting down the glass to free her hands, whatever touch she'd intended was spoiled by the ringing phone.

For a being named Angel, the boss was the furthest thing from heavenly most days. If his perpetual gloom wasn't enough, his timing was downright devilish. Twenty minutes and two cappuccinos later, Doyle and Cordelia ambled into the office in no particular hurry. No case, Angel said. Just something odd to sort out.

Odd wasn't a sufficient description of the woman skulking in the waiting room. It mustn't have been pleasant, whatever took off most of her facial skin. A bubbled, scarred look wasn't in this year, but the woman wore it comfortably. Never had the definition of 'hag' been so plainly illustrated. Finally, someone that dressed worse than Doyle, who had opted for a red bowling shirt from his bag this morning in full disregard to Cordelia's pleading. The coven-reject's 18th century version of a pantsuit would have been easier on the eyes had it not been composed of so many tattered and mismatched patches. The local thrift store wouldn't have given that outfit away.

"Circus lose someone?" Cordy muttered and felt a rebuking elbow push into her side.

"Hey," he whispered. "Could be somebody's mother, yeah?"

"Yeah, since freaks love to procreate around here." Stepping away from the parental correction, Cordelia addressed the woman while maintaining 'infectious disease' distance. "We help the…hopeless. So what exactly can we do for you?"

The automated greeting was delivered in the disinterested manner she reserved for answering the phone. Of course, the hag could see her disgusted face where her callers could not, but courtesy was dispensed to those who could pay. And she saw no purse. And she saw no nose.

"Nothing from you. Waiting for Angel." The dismissive hand, with its wrinkles on wrinkles on protruding bones, brushed off Cordy's apparent intrusion. Not that she minded letting Angel have this one. With gratitude, Cordelia turned to find an empty room behind her. Stifling an urge to run, Cordelia forced her legs to affect a casual retreat, only to notice the woman was paying no heed. Yellowing eyes stared at the room darkening blinds as though there was a view beyond the dark curtains. Maybe, to the delusional, there was.

In the small kitchenette, a frowning man was shrugging off his jacket with more force than required for the task. A bottle of something faintly acrid sat on the table, uncorked and ready. Hands were raised in innocence even as his face shouted that she'd done something wrong. Why wasn't the fact that she spoke to the woman earning a humanitarian medal.

But the lecture was in no hurry to arrive and while she could live without hearing it, she had to prompt, "What?"

How could a mere two eyes contain so much disappointment? "Still judging, Princess?" It wasn't a question and it wasn't spoken kindly.

"Okay, so I react strongly to the badly color coordinated. And sure, when faced with the decomposing, I might not hug them. But I offered help, so quit looking at me like that."

"Do ye have to say the first thing that strikes ye?"

"You knew my love of the inappropriate before today. So what's the big deal?"

He sunk into a chair, dejection leaking from every pore. "She looks different so she's a freak."

Not a summary that worked in her favor. And it occurred to her that they weren't talking about the thrift-store corpse anymore. While his words were aimed squarely at her, the darkened eyes were zeroed in on the open bottle. Cordy inched forward, hoping the nearness would allow her to grab the bottle should he move toward it. And thus went her attempt to head off whatever anger he was munching on.

"Yes, you look different sometimes. And I said I accept that. Meanwhile, our potential client seems to like the crispy baked look, so what's wrong with me being a little put off by it? Don't make me feel like a bad person because I can't call her pretty." Hands on hips sold the lecture. "And neither can you, right?"

For once, her argument had merit because his shoulders relaxed a bit and his eyes left the bottle to light on her. "True enough."

Sitting opposite him, she picked at a scratch on the table's surface. The rough line marred the surface and she was tempted to muse on the metaphor. Only Cordelia Chase indulged in no introspection that didn't involve shoes. Best to keep life simple in this world of hellmouths and demon boyfriends.

"Here's the thing, Doyle. If you're gonna take every comment personally, there'll be a lot more frowning. Which makes it hard to kiss."

The cough from the hall cut off any reply.

"Not while I'm present, please." The deep tones of a vampire drifted in from the doorway. "The woman's an informant. If her information's good, there'll be a stakeout tonight. And Cordelia? No heels this time."

Snide remarks about her footwear choices would only earn Angel a lack of filing later. Receptionists have their weapon, too. Hours lay ahead to do as they pleased. Ranking highest in the possible scenarios was a play date with the sun. If there was any hope of repaving this bumpy road, an overhaul was needed. But that required a return to the construction site. Pulling on Doyle's arm, Cordelia led the way to the rooftop. Under the full rays of unhindered light, truth would have no choice but to emerge from its many hiding places.

Time to take another dive.


	7. Chapter 7

_For Badgirl2bad4u, who discovered me late and prompted a revisit to this unfinished story. And I have not forgotten those faithful readers who requested I continue..._

* * *

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Seven**

For four days, life was as it should be. There was an actual paying case, creepy old crone included. The coffee machine stopped spurting grinds at passersby. A designer store threw a 'going out of business' midnight bash. Her bed held two regular occupants, chaste though the arrangement might be. For four days her fung shui reorganization reaped the promised benefits.

But on Tuesday of the fifth day since Doyle tried to relocate his unfortunate wardrobe, an end table must have been knocked out of alignment because the check bounced, the coffee maker caught fire, the clothes were fakes and her sleeping partner vanished. In that order.

The day before the cataclysmic events her online horoscope hadn't seen coming went something like this: The reconstructive surgery candidate had shown up with a black cloud in her wake. The hazy morning sky had turned ominous and rain began a swift descent at her arrival. Apparently Mother Nature saw the state of her rags and decided on washing them the hard way. The case the woman-ish thing had been assisting was over but she brought her own troubles, meaning prolonged exposure to the rot. This new case was handled solely by a vampire currently exercising some 'no share' clause but was reportedly wrapped up that morning. Cordelia had been expecting a payment in shrunken heads, gnat testicles or some other form that couldn't be spent at Starbucks. Slight as the corpse was, she entered the office with room-filling presence which could be linked to the odor of wet rags. But the pile of flesh-debris stopped short and pointed at a bet-placing Doyle with shaking folds of skin swaying on an outstretched arm.

"Shouldn't be here." The grate of the voice was bad enough but the wafting breath would crumble a statue. And didn't spells require a grip on full sentences?

"Unless you're here to pay," Cordy huffed, "with actual money from this century, just take your weird witchy self out. And take this crappy weather with you."

Granting no heed to Cordelia or the metallic strappy heels her credit card cried over, the woman stepped back toward the threshold, accusing finger remaining aloft. "Don't belong here. Storm tells it."

The light rainfall certainly picked its moment to intensify, sounding like runaway ocean waves hurling itself at the building. Now was a good time to shove the witch outside and wait for a house to flatten her. Though even if she wore Jimmy Choo ruby slippers, Cordy wouldn't want them. A glance at Doyle said he was taking far too much interest in her words.

"What exactly did a bunch of rain tell ye?" Doyle asked with that disbelieving curiosity that gave Cordy hope he wouldn't give much credence to the answer.

Still, questions in any form extended the stay, but there was no way to whisper that logic to him above nature's annoying roar.

"Tells of rebellion. Purpose beyond loyalty."

The crone, who's name Cordelia hadn't bothered to learn for fear of speaking it and issuing plagues, took to fiddling with the hem of her oversized sleeve. The gesture made her look like a corroding child who had told a naughty secret.

"And might I recommend a Tic Tac before fortune telling?" Dismissive Queen C was summoned in hopes the beast understood the concept of a hint. Clearly, the local coven forbade handy confections like breath mints, but she'd be happy to give directions to a convenience store in, say, Europe.

Failing at the original intent, evidenced by the rootlike stance the witch took, Cordy's rudeness did manage to break the steadiness of Doyle's stare and got him moving. Taking Cordelia's elbow, he steered them from the office and into the newly designated Arguing Couple Room which doubled as the kitchen.

"Do me a favor, yeah?" Doyle held out a chair for her in a part-gentleman, part-interrogator, all angry dad manner. "Wait here a bit. Let me talk to her."

Her butt had been mere inches from the seat when her thighs hit work-out mode and launched her back to standing position. "You want to conduct discourse with the undead? Fine by me. But pick a different corpse."

"Cordy…"

"No, I don't want you near her. She's gonna fill you head with stuff she made up and you'll take it as some sort of sign." The firm hand on his forearm would have made a better vice grip had she not been shaking so hard. "Visions are one thing. Following the expired fruitcake is another. I forbid you to talk to her."

Taken aback didn't cover the stunned expression a sculpture would have struggled to maintain. "Forbid me?"

Straighter spine equals authority, doesn't it? And the shoes gave a height advantage. "That's right. Forbid. Like ban, prohibit, outlaw, disallow…"

"I know what it means, Princess." His grin was synchronized with the emerging sun.

And he'd obeyed her commandment, Thou Shalt Not Speaketh To The Hag, for the rest of the rainless afternoon. Not that the woman waited around after Angel arrived to square the debt, an arrangement markedly devoid of cash value. Maybe she'd agreed to stop scaring the sun and return to her hobbit cave. The unpleasantness that was this pro bono case was swept under her Walmart rug as she settled into bed with much yawning and little else. Doyle had made it clear that she'd remain classically pure, at least in his presence, a decision he appeared closer to reversing with each passing night. The increasingly precarious path of her hands might have helped. As Cordy snuggled up with him, one hand laying as a reminder on his thigh, she swore this would be the last night that clothes were involved in sleeping.

Except that when she woke, Doyle was no longer involved with sleeping either. A lack of sounds, the pre-dawn hour and a shrugging phantom conspired to refuse her the luxury of denial. Through the fung shui-ed house she wandered, checking darkened rooms and cursing the beast that stole him. A wrinkling finger had waved like a wand and spirited away the peace they'd been building. Four days. His version of commitment sucked.

And on the end table she'd tripped on yesterday, shifting its alignment to bring about ruin, there was a single orange sticky note with more foreboding than any storm. At least this time, he'd cared enough to say goodbye. Picking up the square, she found a mere three words committed to paper in permanent sharpie marker scrawl. And she smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

**Following is the longest dedication of my existence...**

_For Coletterby, OldBlueEyes, Taaroko, Time and Fate, Sare K, Otahyoni, MrsAllenFrancisDoyle and of course, my good friend Hidden Relevance. Thank you all for continuing to read this and for living in the same fantasy world as Zaedah, believing that he's not dead... just pining._

* * *

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Eight**

At the shocking hour of seven am, Cordelia Chase and her favorite perfume waltzed through the office door and set the day in motion. The lingering scent of their most recent customer had been eradicated by a Fabreze canister in both hands, the coffee machine received a stern lecture about gurgling grinds in her direction and yesterday's mail was opened with far more flourish than the occasion warranted. The flash of the letter knife was halted when the elevator announced the arrival of a boss who would no doubt be impressed by his employee's eager start.

"Do I smell coffee?"

_Well, you certainly don't smell the hag_, she mused while nodding. Sure he took no notice to her shoes-to-belt-to-handbag coordination and apparently the organizational kick merited no praise. You'd think someone named Angel could manage the occasional Hallelujah chorus. But there was, in the chiseled features, some appreciation for the java brewing right up until the moment it touched his tongue. Jerking back, Angel glared at the offending liquid and the cup harboring the fugitive.

"At least it didn't spit at you," came the sweet reminder as piles of mail were moved from her desk to his office.

"Where's Doyle?" Angel looked about absently as though the other third of their business might be lurking in a shadow, or more likely, passed out in a corner.

"Oh, he left."

What little coffee he'd actually swallowed appeared to be assembling an upstream swim.

"Left?" The gurgling in his throat went not at all well with the designer shirt he'd possibly dribbled on.

Cordelia handed him the orange post-it, one corner bent back from a rough ride in her purse. He was certain to take in the thick black lines crating three words with the same understanding as herself. A vampire, perhaps, but not an idiot.

"What's this mean?"

Then again… "I'm just a girl, mind you, but I assumed 'see you tomorrow' means he'll see us tomorrow, which is actually today. So he'll see us today. Meaning, you know… soon."

The note was tossed on the faux walnut desk with a mighty dose of disdain and he stroked his chin in that annoying, 'I'm not a detective but I play one' sort of way. "Could he have been stalling for time? Trying to get a head start?"

Such disparaging remarks about her… whatever, would not go unnoticed. Now if she could only think the word 'boyfriend' without giggling.

"He's coming back, Angel. I mean, it's not a declaration of love, but still. If he was in a rush, he'd have just said 'back soon.' Or done a text message note. You know, like 'C U L8ter?'" Using the Cordy-method of sign language, she cupped her hand into a C and U accordingly.

"I suppose…" and the trailing tone added the subtle shade of 'Not.'

Snatching the now less-sticky-than-advertised post-it, Cordy shoved it back into her purse with a wrinkle-forming scowl. "Angel, he pulled this out of its rather tricky pop up dispenser, found a marker, wrote out fourteen letters, not counting spaces, and left it where I could find it." She nodded in verbal triumph. "He'll be here today. Five out of five phantoms agree." Or just one.

"I hope you're right." The brood, never far from the surface, took the air from the room even after he left it. Cordy refused to consider she was anything but right. The note, in its bright orange, perfect square way, promised.

The entry door swung open with enough force to shake the frame and an average height, dark haired body strode through it with lattes in one hand and a paper in the other. Just like he wrote. Well, there was no vow of coffee but that was a sizable bonus.

"Mornin' Princess. Lookin' like the cover of Vogue today. All coordinated and such."

Doyle handed her a steaming cup while the grin slid into something more delicious, now aimed at her rather tight shirt. Hard to breathe in, true, but well worth the sacrifice. But her 'genuine' detector was beeping like a security alarm at Saks with the arrival of Winona Ryder and the latte was forgotten. It was the slight tremor of his hand that suspended her belief.

Taking in the neatness of the space, Doyle took great pains in marveling at the empty mail bin and remaining stacks of envelopes. "Ye been here long?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Just past the big giant neon-letter hint, the coffee-sipping man before her feigned ignorance. But the grin slipped, an ill-fitting mask loosening to reveal nothing Cordelia could recognize. But he carried on, slapping his paper lightly against his leg and clearing his throat. Whether he wanted to suggest a quicky or confess a sin was in no way certain as he perched on the edge of her desk and reduced his voice to a conspiring murmur.

"So, where's Angel then?" Anxious eyes darted over his shoulder as if worried the boss might be present to hear whatever lie he was perpetrating.

"Probably brushing his fangs." Flipping her hair off her shoulder, Cordy pretended to read the disclaimer on a loan offer while her peripheral vision watched every muscle twitch.

"Tried yer coffee, did he?" The little man was trying, bless his heart, to give the appearance of normalcy. Come in, compliment her, mock Angel. Rinse. Repeat. Except it was too early in the day for him to be this jittery.

"Everything all right?" Oh, she could do innocence too. That fire safety video called for it. And she'd made a stunning smoke inhalation victim.

Shrug? Check. Gaze avoidance? Check. "Course." Except he looked ready to stuff himself into a bottle and she ran a quick mental list of every liquor container she'd dumped into the sink first thing today.

"Where were you last night?"

Doyle jumped to his feet. "I have to report to ye now?" There was more in his tone than mild affront than she could identify. "Then I'd better report that I'm going to Angel's office."

The huff following the announcement was punctuated by his stalking from the room and guilt tingled in her spine. Which was quickly replaced with fury as she slammed her hand down on the desk. Which hurt more than it looked when others did it. Nursing a sore palm, Cordy stewed as she realized that she'd just been played. Her lover, if non-sexual relations qualified for the title, wanted to avoid the inquisition and had successfully turned the tables. She was made to feel like the bad person while he escaped the room, leaving her question loitering like Xander's convenience store cologne. And the abuse inflicted on her desk resulted in a broken nail, which added carrots to the stew.

It took several minutes, forty-one to be accurate, for a long set of legs to end her procrastination and raise the rest of the body to standing position. Once achieved, forward progress, with the excuse of tidying up the office-of-solitude, brought her to Angel's door. Not that she should have been surprised to find it empty. They may have gone out, where the blinding sun would have put at least one out of his misery. Maybe a wayward bus took care of the other. Of course, she wasn't wishing doom on them merely because she was angry. Those emotions led to a dependence on Botox. If the boys club wanted space, let them drink themselves into a state of obscene dreariness. But the nagging itch below her scalp insisted she attempt to follow his trail. And some ridiculous part of her brain, the side that lacked sleep, actually scanned for Lucky Charms on the floor.

And so, with much trepidation of her own demise, Cordelia boarded the elevator and hoped if the aged thing crashed, it would kill her quickly. Safely landing, she wandered through Angel's quarters, amazed as always by the impressive stamp of 'man' he'd draped across every surface. Talk about a lack of girl-touch; even the sculptures were rugged. Brown leather was only good for jackets. Speaking of which, there was no sign of a body in said fabric, only a vampire with his nose shoved in a hundred year-old text.

Upward she rose via the shaking contraction, taking the stairs slowly and peeking through a crack in the door to the rooftop. A breeze, a bottle and Doyle. And a pair of birds fighting in mid-air, which was so not an analogy for what was about to transpire. Was it? Fashioning the top button of her shirt, less from modesty than a consideration of the weather, Cordy left the wind-barrier of the doorway and headed out to the ledge. Alcohol, the breakfast of champions, was held in a vice grip. Apparently he recalled that the liquid would be destined for the sidewalk if she got hold of it. The fluffy Simpsons clouds moved rapidly across the blue expanse while distant dots of Canadian geese passed in a poor excuse for a V. She knew how they felt; her straight-line formation of anger was coming undone. The better girlfriends might stand in the wings, waiting for their man to gather thoughts and revel in angst. But it wasn't the Hellmouth way. And in that Sunnydale spirit, Cordy arrived at the wall and brought the mouth.

"This dark and tormented character you've channeled needs to go back to the romance novel you yanked it from."

And the Heavens opened to light on a genuine smile with honest-to-God dimples. "Rather be channelin' a full bottle." He cast an accusing eye at the nearly finished whiskey. "Look, I didn' mean snap at you. I just... hadn' had enough coffee for an early mornin' interrogation."

"But a show of temper got you out of answering me. Funny how well that plan worked."

Despite the lack of impact, since most of it was in his system, Cordy made a show of flinging the bottle to the curb below. A satisfying smash echoed up to the roof, followed by a dramatic wipe of her hands. Turning back to see the eye roll, she was interrupted from chastising by the gust of October wind that forced goosebumps to her skin. And her knight removed his jacket to drape across her shoulders.

There'd be no twenty questions now. Because there'd be no answers. So she gave up the notion of beating anything out of him and made a stab at the 'supportive girlfriend' thing.

"I'd appreciate a wake-up next time you decide to bail. You need space? I've got more than one room to barricade yourself in." She watched his expression relax a fraction, which usually meant the liquor was kicking in. "You don't have to leave the house. That's not how a relationship works."

And that quickly, relaxed fled in favor of apprehension. Must have been that 'R' word. "Ask Harry how good I am at relationships. She could use the laugh."

"I'm not Harry." That was the grown-up voice she couldn't conjure during theater tryouts.

Her face was taken in hand and he kissed her lightly, nothing more than a ghost-rub of his lips to hers. "That I know. You're more thorough in hidin' my drinks than she was." Oh, so he had noticed the result of her spring-cleaning.

Though it was barely a compliment, Cordy allowed Doyle to steer her back to the warmth of the office, heeding the advice of the dropping temperature. Moments later, they were assailed by the clanging sounds of a vampire tearing his desk apart.

"What did you do with it?" Flashing eyes zeroed in on his secretary/office manager with daggers that spoke of unemployment. "You know what? Don't ever clean again."

"What's he on about?" Doyle leaned in to ask in a whisper.

Not that she had the slightest, but the dark avenger looked like a man who'd lost his hair gel. Best to slide out before he noticed how many other useless items she'd thrown away in her efforts this morning.

"The last client had a name for me," Angel explained while dumping out drawers. "But clearly Cordelia was so disgusted by her, she torched the paper." Then he straightened and pointed a finger at Doyle. "Wait. You saw her last night. Did she mention it?"

Cordelia stepped away from the man she'd been about to take home to seduce and nearly screamed. "You what?"


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks for returning, dear ones. This installment is a little shorter than planned but that's the way it wanted to be written. I hope my continued denial of "Hero" brings you a bit of entertainment. _

* * *

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Nine**

Like most women, Cordelia Chase assumed she knew how to speak. True, she'd suffered through the first few years of life without the talent, the babbling and pointing and screeching got her demands across. But the vocal prowess developed in toddler days and perfected in teenage years hadn't abandoned her in adult life. It had, to her recollection, been perfectly clear. She'd remembered to use English and keep the words fairly simple. She was possessed of no lisp or stutter that she was aware of. So how could an order so plain and understandable have been misunderstood?

There had been, after all, that whole 'I forbid you' conversation.

The violation couldn't have been intentional, Cordy decided as she dragged the disobedient man by the wrinkled shirt to the kitchen. The coffee machine gurgled its hello but no attention was paid to the torpedo-like grinds that usually followed. Doyle wasn't the brave sort, other than that one shining moment of crossbow heroics. But he stood, short and disheveled, in front of a woefully empty refrigerator, completely unarmed and not nearly apologetic enough. An inventory of her inner arsenal verified all Sunnydale-assembled weaponry was stocked and ready. But it was only fair to give the target a head start.

So she waited, arms crossed, hip thrust to one side, eyebrow cocked. And waited. Until the eternity of waiting became too strenuous and twenty seconds into the endeavor, Mount Chase erupted.

"You said you knew what forbidding meant, but obviously it's only in the American dictionary. You just couldn't stay away from Creeps R Us, could you? What, was her eye-of-lizard scent intoxicating or… or maybe her level of decay turns you on?"

He had the nerve to roll his eyes at her assumption. "Of course not."

Cordy's hands were flailing now, looking rather like helicopter blades. It only fueled her anger that he'd made her use ridiculous gestures. The flapping arms, searching for a grasp on this insanity, came perilously close to smacking something. Or someone.

"Then what is it about the hag that made you leave a bed with, you know, hotter-than-you-deserve moi in it? Suddenly you prefer trudging through whatever downtown, downwind sewer puddle she calls home and picking out curtains with her."

Whatever amusement he'd found in her animated hands was fleeting. His own hands rose in a half-defensive, half-shushing motion. "Listen, I needed to…"

"No, what you need to do is explain."

Arms dropped to his side and Doyle's expression met somewhere between annoyed and placating. "I'm tryin'…"

"My patience, yes."

The shrill whine of the office phone cut into what was destined to be her finest diatribe. Neither they, nor Angel apparently, intended to help the hopeless person who gave up on the ninth ring. But it was a distraction Doyle must have appreciated, because he shed his jacket, tossing it on one of the mismatched chairs. His stance lost a measure of tenseness as he leaned on the fridge, hands sliding into his pockets.

"Princess, what's this really about?"

_What's this about?_ Where does one begin without turning homicidal? The fun of finger-painting with his blood after slicing his throat with a potato peeler found an eager place in her mind. Stilettos had been a poor choice today, as the shaky balance they created made pacing impractical. Luck of the Irish, indeed, as she'd have been tempted to trod on his carcass.

"What this is about," Cordelia began with all the sweetness of a tire fire, "is how the devil's concubine ranks over me." One foot tapped out a menacingly tuneless song while her voice angled toward steel. "It's about sharing _my_ time and _my_ bed with someone who'd rather be somewhere else."

"Just because I…" Her hand was raised and Doyle's point went unfinished as he sank into a chair, no longer a willing participant. The sole light was casting a halo on his dark hair and she considered the symbolism a mockery.

And despite the threat to her ankles, the pacing commenced. Her agitation could curl the linoleum, which would only improve the lack of design features in the room. She vowed to fung shui the space as soon as she killed this man.

"I've been patient. I've been supportive. I've been uncomplaining." Each item was ticked off on one hand, which was soon to form a fist. "I've been every adjective on Mother Theresa's headstone and dammit, I'm not enjoying it!"

When his mouth opened, then snapped shut, it left a decibel void her voice was more than happy to fill. A gazillion carat diamond ring wouldn't have derailed the fury-train.

"I took a chance opening up to you but it's not working out, is it? I didn't put myself on the line to get ditched for a corpse! I'm growing feebly old waiting for you to get what I need!"

"Cordy, calm down." And that he sounded faintly disinterested only deepened her entirely righteous wrath.

"And for the love of Prada, why haven't you laid a proper hand on me? And by proper, I mean, you know…improper."

Well, that got him interested. The slouch he'd been perfecting shifted into rather decent posture. "Is that what you're upset about? Me being a gentleman?"

"It's about everything!" Exasperation led to breathlessness as the daunting task of explaining just what fell under 'everything' lay before her. Because the alleged 'gentleman' was, like most males, dense as 5000 thread count sheets. "About you ignoring my perfectly clear legislation. About you resuming your lone gunman life and going off without me."

The smirk, though it looked oddly good on him, brought her no comfort. A little half bow from his seated position was almost comical, had it not been done to slight her.

"Sorry, yer highness. Didn' know I signed up for yer exclusive company."

And a toaster to the head was becoming a viable option. "I expect a certain amount of your attention. Which means all of it. This shouldn't surprise you."

What did surprise her was the rate at which his jaw was flexing. "I'll be sure to shun the rest o'humanity for ye."

"I wouldn't call the witch humanity." Cordy's fingers drummed on the table, accompanying the deepening frown. "And I expect full genuflection next time you decide to acknowledge my royalty. Because you did the one thing I begged you not to."

Doyle was out of his chair and invading her personal space before the last word was uttered. It was possible she should be concerned but this remembering that this was Doyle, she assumed an apology was forthcoming. Until the neon sign in his eyes was translated. Maybe it was just the poor lighting, but while she'd heard of 'seeing red,' she'd never seen actual crimson streaks in someone eyes. The collision of green and red transfixed her into nearly missing his words.

"It wasn' begged. It was ordered," he was telling her. "And what exactly gave ye the right to do that?"

"I _thought _being in a relationship gave me a say."

"Is that what this is, then?" Doyle gestured to the empty air between them. "Cuz it doesn' seem like it."

"Maybe it would if you didn't set up shop inside a bottle every time someone across the space-time continuum mumbles the word 'commitment.' All this time you acted like you want this but now you don't want to belong to me."

A high-glossed bottom lip took a beating as it was vigorously chewed in the break for breath. Oxygen recovered, she shuffled forward just a bit, finger jabbing at his chest.

"Clue me in here. Did Harry have to kidnap you to get you to the alter?"

"We're not discussin' that."

Green eyes darted about like the infamous ex had planted a bug in the dead plant. And the harsh volume she'd been losing over the last few exchanges was making a comeback.

"Maybe we should. You still want the curly-haired barbie doll with no opinions? Go break up another one of her relationships."

"Ye don' know anythin' about that." The dangerous whisper didn't go with the boyish face. "Or me."

The not-so-tall man must have downed some miracle-gro because, all at once, he gained vertical advantage. In monster heels, Cordy should have maintained a good two inches on him. Or maybe, under the intensity of his fury-tinted glare, she was shriveling. Objection to his claim went unsaid because he wasn't done yet.

"I don' even own myself. And there's not enough of me to be owned by you," his eyes shot skyward, "and them."

The reminder of his obligation to the Powers That Be was a whiplash blow, sinking her voice into a gentler tone. "I'm not trying to own you."

But his firm head shaking signified that he wasn't impressed by her sincerity. "No, but ye _forbid_ me from doin' what I need to. And ye demand I explain and then not let me get a word in."

Moving away from her, Doyle laid his hands on the countertop and dropped his head to his chest. Behind her, Cordelia could hear the sounds of normal life drifting in from the street below. A siren, pigeons and pedestrians making their way through the same moment without having to battle for something that should have been easy. They were attracted to each other. They both struggled with loneliness. Why was this so hard? And why was this well-traveled, half-demon former teacher so insistent on missing the point? Not used to weighing her words before letting them fly, a slowly defeated Cordelia took a deep breath and spoke slow and clear to his back.

"Because I don't know what you could say to make me forget waking up alone. Hello, slight abandonment issues here. Do you even know what you put me through?"

Must be all the practice because he did shame well. "Cordy…"

"This isn't me being a bitch. I was scared, okay? I had the phone in my hand to call Willow for yet another locator spell until I found the note. And even then…"

Tears were a marvelous diffuser, however unreliable it was on audition day. Because their appearance stole the tension from his body and he turned back to her, paying special attention to the retro tile pattern with eyes that had lost the red hue.

"I meant to be back before ye noticed. Doesn' mean I was leavin'."

Swiping a hand across wet cheeks, Cordy shrugged. "If you're so sure I don't know you, then how could I know that? You left once already and I'm tired of waiting for your next try. It's not fair."

Returning to his seat with all the energy of the elderly, Doyle rested his elbows on the table and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. It was back to waiting, her least favorite activity today and were it not for the sterling silver, Rhodium finished, pink princess-cut cubic zirconia with side baguettes on her finger, she'd have had to sit on her hands. Which would have ruined her linen pants since smears of mascara coated her fingers.

"Was a vision made me go last night. Several actually. Multiples have nothin' to recommend'um."

Pushing his jacket aside, Cordelia sat on the opposing chair and watched as the mere mention of visions seemed to revive his headache. No further explanation was offered but she was far from satisfied.

"So, they told you to see the Rocky Horror reject?" The prompt earned her a nod. "And?"

Reluctant sighs were the next thing to be forbidden. "She didn't say anythin' different than before. Don' know what they were after, 'cept to prove I'd go where they ordered."

"So it was a test?"

"Aye. And I doubt they're done."

The antique clock, matching exactly nothing in this room, chimed that lunchtime had arrived. And the footsteps behind her announced Angel had, too. But Cordelia didn't bother to turn around, seeing Doyle shake his head and hearing the quiet shuffle of a creature of the night stalking away. And there they sat, Doyle keeping his gaze on the napkin holder and Cordy resorting to sniffing since said holder was empty. When she stood, Cordy knew he wouldn't follow. From the doorway, her last confession was made.

"In the airport, I told you the truth. I said I loved you. You thought it was convenient, which is silly because it's been anything but. And you know what makes it worse? You've never said it back. So if you're gonna go, go now. Don't drag this out so long that I can never get over it."

He rose, nodding his understanding and looking entirely like a man who'd made the world's fastest decision. And proceeded to carry it out most ungentlemanly.

And she'd never speak ill of that linoleum again.


	10. Chapter 10

_Zaedah apologizes for making the surprising number of Rooftop fans wait months for this chapter. Please don't send virtual firebombs. I thank you for returning and will post the final two chapters as soon as possible.  
_

* * *

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Ten**

Cordelia Chase, marker of territory.

Naturally she would carry that innocent face to the grave, as long as the evidence of a newly risen biting predilection remained safely beyond public scrutiny. But she knew it was there and when Doyle shifted the seam of his tee shirt from his bruised and tender shoulder, her teeth pulsed with phantom sensation. He hadn't seemed to mind at the time. What happens on the kitchen floor stays on the kitchen floor. Except when it doesn't.

Because two hours after they'd straightened their clothes and scrubbed off the satisfied grins, the wrinkling nose of a scent-perplexed vampire sniffed around in her favorite room on planet Earth. The over-Fabreezing coupled with enough bleach to clean an Olympic stadium was clearly confusing Angel's hound dog nose. Cordy threw a discreet glance to her accomplice, who was smirking like the devil at a gun fight. The boss eyed the dish strainer, taking in the drying mugs, plates and … napkin holder. Please, she prayed, don't ask what we used that for.

If she mashed their brains together, the whole of Sunnydale still couldn't match her partner's creativity. Clearly he'd seen a lot of… those movies. He stood now, watching his terribly masculine friend fight the girlish fright.

"Did you need to sterilize _everything_?" Angel's disgust would need a wheelbarrow to carry out.

"Thorough is my new middle name?" Cordy suggested, tugging on Doyle's arm to exit before Angel found the disfigured whisk.

Criminals don't loiter at their own crime scene, especially when the detective is pulling the egg timer out of the trash. Turning the dial, the tiny machine vibrated for a moment in his hand, then sputtered to a creaking stop. Angel dropped the timer like it was leaking liquid sunshine.

"I don't want to know," he muttered as the guilty pair slipped out the view.

Unfortunately for her beau, Cordelia remembered the issue preceding their improper use of kitchen tools. Noncompliance to Queen C's decrees. Notwithstanding the 3 big O's he'd given her hours before, the disobedient dog would still need training if he wanted a repeat performance. Leaving Doyle by her desk, Cordy hastened to the front door, locking it against the hopeless world that liked to be saved on a budget.

She needed to be direct.

She needed to be firm.

She needed to turn her skirt around. There was no way to gracefully twist the offending cloth around the right way and Cordelia just hoped he failed to notice.

"Okay," she began, pointing like a school marm. "You have some explaining to do and no amount of unexpected seduction can get you out of it. This time."

With a tilt of his head, Doyle gestured to the oddity that was the shorter-in-the-back skirt. "Might want to fix that first, Princess."

"Hey, I was in a hurry. That spatula wasn't cleaning itself." And of course the firm went out when the blush rode in. "And anyway, I could yell just as loud with the label in the front."

"Do ye need to?"

Giving up grace for function, the skirt was shoved into place, succeeding only in bunching her one-time-a-year pantyhose. While she was occupied with a fashion faux pas, Doyle pushed aside her stack of magazines, which were purely research material. He perched on the edge of her desk and Cordy briefly contemplated warning him of the cracked leg beneath him. Wishing for nothing to kill him before she did, Cordy reached out and pulled him to his feet. The sun sent rays to eavesdrop, hazing her vision a bit with the constriction of her pupils.

"Tell me what the hag said."

"She…" It was the sigh of an interrogation room confession. "She said she hears t'ings in the sky. Words in the rain and all that."

Her mind reading skills were akin to her ability to make a missile from gum and toothpicks but she was fairly sure the crone gave him more than a weather report. She just hoped it wasn't a rotted appendage. Giving still-lush hair a swish in that 'I'm superior to disintegrating flesh' way he was sure to bow to, Cordelia reached out to reclaim his hand.

"Words in the rain. And the words weren't a tongue-of-bat recipe, were they?"

No decent vision was needed to detect the grin. "Lung-of-dragon, actually. We'll try it tonight."

"Only if celibacy works for you." Tightening her grip around his palm, Cordelia bid goodbye to the jovial mood as she pushed heavily on the crow bar. "So, you risked my wrath and went to see her. Did you get anything out of it?"

Doyle's jacket, and the body within, leaned away as though a smack was forthcoming. "More o'the same. I shouldna be here. I'm betrayin' my purpose. But hey, ye gotta admit, her clothes are worst than mine."

Okay, she had to give him that. "And that was it?" Incredulous was a bone she was gnawing to bits. He left her alone for _that_?

"Guess you can't hear 'rain words' when it's dry."

Shrug plus eye avoidance equals lie. It would have been irritating math had Doyle's hands not stolen to her waist, skillfully kneading while cleverly pulling her closer. When the devious half-demon finally looked at her, the gaze was 110 degrees on concrete. And kissing was an evolutionary progression. As much as the mush labeled his girlfriend was cursing the distraction tactic, her body was blessing it with a zeal that nearly brought them toppling over. Breaking a heel in the effort barely registered. The few circuits of her brain not currently misfiring in the waves of his heat considered the desk full of potential toys.

Staple remover anyone?

But his assault stopped, leaving her in a gasping heap of singed nerves. Tossing a glance to the approaching footsteps, Doyle looked as frustrated as she felt.

"Lunch break?" He suggested with a nod to the door.

"Break? Hell, I quit."

The form that lunch took pushed the boundaries of state regulation; unannounced, extended and in no way involving food. The drive back to the office proved a challenge, his speed differing based on the location of her hand. What was the point of dating if one couldn't mold playing into a threat of vehicular homicide? Angel wasn't likely to notice that Cordy's outfit had changed, though she mourned the shirt Doyle had damaged in his rush. Although, routinely returning the favor would allow her to slowly replace his wardrobe. There was no downside to that plan.

Still, it occurred to her that this was less a man making up for lost time as a man quickly running out of it.

Dry leaves swirled around the steps of the building and a rumble sounded overhead. Just a train, she decided based on hope alone. Storms, of late, bring prophesying zombies. Entering the lobby, Cordelia was assailed by the sharp scent of shoe polish, strong enough to have conquered the bleach. The walls appeared to stand up straighter and even the sun had tucked itself away before its bedtime. Following husky voices, Cordy and Doyle peeked into Angel's office and the reason inanimate objects seemed to quake became clear. Three men, dressed like the secret service with posture like marines, filled the small space, towering over a seated vampire. Angel, for his part, looked almost amused at their stab at intimidation. He must have sensed the arrival of his wayward staff because he raised his voice in a comically obvious way.

"So, to summarize the last hour of my life, you think I'm employing an illegal immigrant?"

Doyle backed away from the door frame like a kid caught sneaking porn and Cordelia followed as quietly as chunky shoes can manage on polished wood. The slightest squeak had her removing them for expediency. Once safely tucked away near the supply room, Cordy tangled with a mop and lost. Doyle stepped in for the rescue and the lamplight caught his eyes. The confidence he'd displayed in their varied intimacies today had evaporated into anxiety on legs.

And Supportive girlfriend mode was engaged. "If Angel snaps on them, you could go demon on the Men In Black rejects."

"S'not my thing."

Cordy resisted the urge to throw in a head smack. Men needed physical punctuation sometimes. The tapping foot was muted in deference to the pistol-packing G-men or whatever they were.

"Then maybe your 'thing' can brave the paper cut to whip out your green card?"

"I don' exactly," the dreaded shrug was back, "have one."

Which is when the mouth shot past the brain. "I'm screwing an illegal alien?"

"Cordy…" Doyle gestured to the roomful of Armani agents.

Stilling the nearly in-flight hands, Cordelia was desperate need of good, solid lumber. Because despite rapid progress, their sticking point continued to be the truth, something he kept shoving into oncoming traffic.

"Anything else you've forgotten to mention?" Whispered yelling was hard on the throat.

Angel wished the visitors a noisy farewell and Doyle tugged her into the hall, waiting for an all-clear. Slamming the door behind the strangers, Angel's huff could be heard in Hell.

"Doyle!"

The emerging pair found their boss commencing a panther-like pacing in the lobby. Never had a carpet garnered more sympathy.

"How did this happen?" The personification of fury asked the fading paint of the nearest wall.

Cordy's spine evoked a spelling bee. "Your human resources department didn't make it an employment requirement."

"Which is you," Doyle patted her shoulder in appreciation of the self-incriminating defense. Dropping onto a couch, Doyle rubbed his eyes. "Harry and I were married and divorced in Ireland. Nothin' was filed here. When the Powers shipped me here, I kinda took a shortcut through the paperwork."

"By not doing any." Angel sank into the opposing chair and Cordy's mind reading skills came online long enough to know Angel was asking the same thing she had. Anything else?

Doyle's pending deportation back to the land of fellow leprechauns was certain to cramp their one day old sex life. Although his penchant for failing to mention things wasn't helping either. Before the depressing thought could be fully formulated into a punch in the face, Doyle stiffened, ducking his head. Then it hit; a train wreck of a vision slamming into his brain. His head fell into his hands as he rode out the pain and her taste for domestic violence turned sour in her mouth.

Sliding onto the floor, Cordelia kneeled between his knees and willed him to unclench his jaw and take a breath. Ninety seconds later, the tremors subsided and Cordy drew his head on her waiting shoulder.

"What did you see?"

The Irishman, too busy chasing down his breath to respond, reluctantly raised his head from the crook of her neck. His eyes were squeezed shut against the artificial lights that Angel used in a mockery of daylight. Under her probing hand, his heart was beating so hard Cordy feared it would launch itself out of his chest. And she wasn't real into organ catching.

"Leaving the country," pant, swallow, gasp. "Bad idea."

Angel moved to the edge of the easy chair. "As long as we can keep you out of INS's hands."

"Maybe it only works in movies," Cordy whispered against his ear. "But we could get legal."

Predictably, someone fainted.


	11. Chapter 11

_I promised a quick update and I hope I delivered. We're swiftly approaching the conclusion to this story and I thank everyone for staying tuned for so long..._

* * *

**Rooftop Diving**

**Chapter Eleven**

The dark silhouette outside the front door, illuminated by combative lightning, was seen to topple over, effectively killing any discussion of impromptu weddings. The resulting thump of a body no longer standing had all the politeness of a blind grizzly on crack. Three witnesses made no particular haste to the scene, the vampire taking point and peering through the side window. Apparently not spotting a slobbering animal, Angel stalked to the door and threw it open. A crumpled form trespassed on the steps, face down and buried by fraying fabric. The scent was instantly familiar, as was the nausea it induced. The Hag.

Bravely reaching under the barriers in search of a withered neck, Angel withdrew his hand and Cordelia fought the urge to douse him in sanitizer.

"No pulse," he informed, breaking out the ridges to scan the wet street.

"How do we know she ever had one?" Cordy looked to the men for agreement but Doyle's frown echoed a silent reminder;_ someone's mother_.

That notion, with all of its alarming possibilities, was dragged into the lobby with the already stiffening body. And the putrid stench would never come out of the carpet currently employed with soaking up the dripping water. Doyle closed and locked the door more than once in a show of closet OCD while Cordy tried and failed to ignore the unwelcome addition to their evening. Since no one had the druthers to draw lids closed over the cheese-colored eyes, the dead face contented itself with peering up at them. Truly, death neither added nor took away from her frightening appearance.

"Doyle," Angel began while stepping his sensitive nose away from the ripe witch. "She must have been coming to see you. Another message?"

Cordy's hands curled into fist formation, sparkling nails embedding into palms. "Lucky she croaked first."

Ignoring the question and corresponding quip, the slight man knelt beside the mass of tangled clothes and matted hair. A cautious removal of layers revealed skin that a vat of Botox couldn't help. The wrinkles were an infestation and the moles had been busy breeding. If this was the curse of getting old, Cordy would sign herself up for an early death.

"I don' see any wounds. And ye would have smelled blood." Doyle gestured vaguely to Angel. "Maybe she came for help."

"She didn't find it." The Dark Avenger voice kicked in as he bent down, lifting the body over his shoulder. "I have to get rid of her. But don't leave here, either of you."

Outside, as though mourning for its translator, the heavens opened to pour judgment on the unkind world below. Not that it increased Cordelia's gaping lack of fondness for the walking rot, but watching the uneven pavement catching tears tweaked some tiny particle of compassion. Doyle stood just behind her as nature displayed its version of their day. His hands, so recently starving for contact, avoided her like she'd dressed in designer plague.

The immigration agents, the dead body, visions and lectures from the sky. There were too many coincidences for a hellmouth girl to ignore, despite the crow's feet such desperate thinking would produce.

"Is this the PTB conspiring against us?" She asked, swallowing the fear that voicing such things made them true.

In the premium commercials she never gets, the loving boyfriend puts his arms around his woman, whispering reassurance and then buying her diamonds. Reality needed a new director or she was walking off the set. Because in the window's reflection she saw Doyle back away. He opened a filing cabinet marked Accounts, into which was crammed pending bills and apparently the one bottle she'd missed. Damn.

Leaving the downpour behind, Cordelia tracked him to the kitchen. A highball glass had already been retrieved, the liquor poured halfway and downed swiftly. Droplets from the hasty fill marred the surface she'd scoured this morning.

"I'll share," Doyle offered without turning to his audience.

Stepping further into the room where Clorox still lingered, Cordy thought better of stealing the bottle. On every corner of this street a bar sat, reducing property values and happily serving the bottomless well that is an Irishman.

"I'd rather you share what you know."

A second drink was measured. "She was a message." He tossed it back ad wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The crow bar was a tool more easily wielded on the inebriated, so Cordy let him drink. As if she had any choice. The floor stared up at her, linoleum likely still implanted with their skin cells.

"She didn't just repeat herself, did she?"

A third helping made its way into the glass and then into him. At least he was bothering to pour it, she mused. Having seemingly taken what he needed from the bottle, Doyle abandoned it and sat at the table, looking none too affect as yet. But his gaze rose to hers, holding it more steadily than he'd ever managed sober. He'd talk now, because he gets comfortable with truth after liquid fortification.

"Voices told her a sign was comin' and I'd see the face o'death. Twice"

See, that's what happens when people listen to talking rain. Mystic, morbid and just a bit murky. Unfortunately, his expression said it worked. Maybe getting wasted with him wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they'd wake up in a world devoid of signs and storms and interruptions. And maybe she'd be Julia Roberts.

However unlikely, fantasy was preferable to this soggy reality where people expire on doorsteps and some prophesy is gleaned from it. This new life, her effort to start over, now tipped somewhere between sex and separation, lust and lies. Great, now she was thinking in last month's article titles. There surfaced a charming potential in deportation; anywhere had to be more peaceful. She'd just have to join him in his little third world country because she wasn't about to break in another one.

And then the breadcrumbs of his thoughts shined on the darkened trail.

"She said there'd be two deaths?" Cordy waited for his nod. "Haggy's one and gee, won't she be missed?"

More silence. If Doyle was any further away, he'd be in orbit. It was tough to pace in the shoebox kitchen, so restless legs fidgeted in place as she plotted it out. They wouldn't kill the messenger, since a beheaded mailman delivers no letters. Centuries have proven Angel difficult to destroy. So… easy target? Mere mortal? Oh crap.

"It'll be me." Not that she believed. Not at all. Much.

How a practicing alcoholic moved so fast would remain beyond her. But in Doyle City, abrupt departures meant Yes. Cordelia found herself standing alone as thunder hi-fived itself hard enough to shake the unfinished whiskey on the counter. But her foundation wouldn't be shaken, she wanted to yell to the storm, raised fist and all. The act of giving credence to nonsense, a staple of her youth, went out with plaid skirts. Not only would she not keel over so that the Powers That Be could prove a damned point, but if a second death was needed to fulfill some cosmic quota, she'd nominate the plethora of still-living, dusty and freaky crones in the universe. A princess cannot be knocked off her throne by PTB-inspired, gossipy rain.

Natives of Doyle City are equally clear on No. As obvious as crime scene tape, his unspoken demand kept her back; _Leave me alone_. An opposing wall was selected to hold her up as her arms wrapped themselves around her waist. Not very comforting, the self-hug. But the embrace she wanted was locked away within the man watching the storm as though it was watery scripture. The display of uncharacteristically decent posture was an answer, but she said it anyway.

"I noticed that my ordained demise gives you the excuse you've been waiting for."

Leaving the wall, long legs carried her across the room, letting the guilty face his accuser. Not that he would, Mr. Avoidance and all. Beyond his streaked reflection, the deluge lessened to a soft shower, the harsher elements fading in contrast to the mood inside.

"Didn' say I was leavin'."

Her snort shot angry fumes into the space between two tense bodies. "You didn't have to!"

"So we're back to assumin' then?"

He was so not going to turn this around on her. "It's the only thing you make possible. Blood outta stone, babe."

The endearment, however roughly spoken, sparked a little light deep in his eyes, burning to cinders whatever argument he had lined up. But like any casual fire, it burned out in seconds.

"I told ye, I'm not good with confession."

Funny coming from a Catholic, she thought. Which naturally made her think of church and every woman's favorite religious event.

"Did you even hear what I offered before? If the hag was eavesdropping, it's probably what killed her."

Turning to her, Doyle's face was painted with skepticism. "Ye know it doesn' work in real life, Cordelia."

And there it was. That voice, the one she grew up despising. The one that talked down to stupid little Cordy as though basic concepts were as beyond her grasp as stars. She glared at the former teacher, a profession bound to perfect that tone, daring him to use it again.

"Marriage for a green card or marriage in general?"

"One divorce was enough," he muttered as the soaked carpet gained his attention.

She could ask, 'who said we'd get divorced.' She could say, 'it never hurts to try.' But Sunnydale had taught her an important combat lesson; recognize a losing battle, regroup and change direction.

"I'm going home." She held out her hand, pleased when he took it even as she considered using it to beat him.

It wasn't an invitation to stay. Previous invites had come with calligraphy and beautiful trappings. But now he'd have to make the choice on his own because she was tired of dragging the horse to water, though Lord knows he's got the drinking down pat. For her part, Cordelia would not beg, plead or otherwise degrade her queenly status in order to force this relationship to happen. It was time for Doyle to do some of the work of sustaining and moving forward.

Which was clearly asking too much.

Sitting alone on her bed as the clock flipped past minutes and hours, Cordy signed and groaned and huffed until Dennis finally stepped in. Pushing his hands out of the wall, Dennis spread his hands in a 'what?' gesture.

"Men are stupid," was her summation of the day. The ghostly thumbs up made her feel fractionally better. "I mean, here I am offering to stoop to the level of marriage when I'm not getting any riches or prestige out of it. It's not like he's a doctor or a CEO."

A finger wagged against the wall, the phantom telling her that it didn't matter. And he was right. Sure, the relationship was only a few days old and okay, there'd been only one day of mature content. But the courtship had been established long before, with each compliment and every sideways glance. Was it worth fighting for when only she seemed ready to take up arms?

And was she willing to die to keep him here?

Dennis remained silent as she voiced each of these questions. Several minutes later, she glanced to the wall to find him walking his fingers across his chest, then pointing to his heart.

"Follow my heart, huh?"

And so she did, fairly rushing up the office steps in her fuzzy pink slippers, ignoring the puddles that would surely mat the fluff. Inside, darkness greeted her, and it was the only thing that did. Angel was not in the lobby, nor his office, nor the kitchen. As if a vampire would hang out there anyway. Neither was there any trace of Doyle. Not that there should be, since it was, after all, the middle of the night. Any decent person would be sleeping off their multiple shots. But the lobby couch was empty and Cordy boarded the elevator to search a few more pieces of furniture. Reaching Angel's apartment, Cordy was welcomed by yet more darkness. Obviously the boys were not partying without her. Why didn't she feel relieved? Flipping on the living room light, Cordy decided to stop the whole manhunt gig and just do what girls do best. Yell.

"Angel?"

A hand immediately covered her mouth and panic was a perfectly respectable reaction. Until the hand was followed by an arm, then a body and finally a face in her line of sight. Angel released her and shook his head.

"I thought you went home." He was whispering. It was annoying. Then he noted her PJ's and bit back a comment.

Pushing past her boss, Cordy scanned the empty room. "Where's Doyle?"

Eyes narrowing, Angel repeated, "Why did you come back?"

Ignoring the question for the moment, Cordy busied herself by peering into the doorways on the far side of the apartment before turning back to him. She'd have to get past him to check the other rooms. Why'd he have to be so tall? And undead?

"Cordy?" The voice carried a warning approaching growl level.

"Unless you've forgotten, I'm The Girlfriend now. Which means access to The Boyfriend, if you don't mind."

Standing firm, Angel stretched his body to tower over her. "I mind."

Oh, but she'd worked here far too long. "Like I care. Tell me what's going on or I swear, I'll make Spike look like a toddler."

He should have laughed at that, empty threat that it was. But the vampire knew she could operate curtains well enough to toast him.

"He's having too many." At her confused features, he pressed on. "Visions, I mean. All of a sudden, one right after the other. It's like… the Powers are sending waves of information in such a cascade that he can't make sense of it."

Because she needed one more reason to dislike the PTB. Cordy turned a panicked, yet accusing eye to her boss. "When were you gonna tell me?"

The tone of betrayal visibly stung him, but he chose to let it slide. "When there was something you could do."

God, did she ever want to slap him. "In other words, when it's over." Did everyone think of her as effectively useless?

Taking a calming breath, Angel tried reason. "Look, this requires more than an aspirin and a glass of scotch. But I don't know enough about his gift to even suggest a way to help."

"So what were you gonna tell me when I came in tomorrow? It's a hangover?" Slapping her thighs, Cordy huffed. "God forbid anyone tells me anything."

"The point is," he interjected, "there's nothing you can do for him tonight. Go back home."

Between the dismissal, the delay of information and abject fear, Cordy began to stew quite thoroughly. How dare he try to keep her out of the loop, away from her man when he needed her. And then the selfish tilt of her thoughts faded and her muddled mind became frighteningly clear. "I want to see him."

Angel rose and put his hands on her shoulders. "You can't."

No such phrase belonged in Queen C's ears. "Don't tell me…"

"He's in a lot of pain, Cordy. Times the normal post-vision trauma by a hundred and you're not even close. Light, sound, everything is magnified a thousand fold. He can't even tell me what he sees."

"Well, he can _see_ me."

His closed eyes indicated, she hoped, a moment of consideration. The nod was slow in coming, but did arrive without another word from him. Leading the way, Angel stopped just shy of the guestroom door to put his finger against his lips, a gesture of reminder. Cordelia mimicked the motion and slipped inside the room.

And found the PTB doing more than conspiring against them. They were winning.


End file.
